In Short Supply
by ckret2
Summary: When Purple discovers that the gap between the tall and short Irkens is widening, he fears the worst, the division of the Irken race. But as Red denies that anything's wrong, he resorts to filling that gap himself. With Zim's help. ZAPR, mpreg.
1. Roller Coasters

A/N: Yep, this is Zim/Purple, and this is mpreg. No, I don't think mpreg is hot or cute or anything like that; I think it's an interesting idea to explore. Hence, as much as possible, I'm gonna keep everyone in character, follow canon, and retain the attitude and tone of the show. So, Zim is still a (lovable) buffoon, Purple still hates Zim—at least at the beginning—and the Irkens are still genitalia-free and born in tubes. Well, they are_ most_ of the time. Don't expect any mushy-gushiness on the part of either Zim or Purple, and certainly no one going "omg I get to be a mommy!" That'd be... scary.

Enjoy the fic, and please remember to review! I can't tell whether or not anybody's enjoying this unless you say so. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Invader Zim. This might be a good thing, actually.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Roller Coasters

xxx

From Dib's notes, nine months ago: _Possibly learned something new today about Zim's culture. There are ads up all over the school for the annual Valentine's Day Dance. Apparently it's a big deal for the eighth graders but they act like jerks to seventh graders at the dance, so I'm not going. Probably won't go next year, either. But that's not the point_.

_I've never seen Zim as shocked as when he saw those posters and someone explained to him what they were for. Later in the day someone asked him to go to the dance with her, and Zim actually looked sick. He's not even attempting to act like a human over this dance. He's really grossed out about it_.

_After lunch I heard him saying something to that Keef guy who keeps following him about "this horrible school's Valentine orgy." I think he was talking about the dance. Maybe "dancing" means something different on his planet than it does here? Note: follow up on this later. Could be important. Or funny_.

xxx

Zim couldn't currently remember how he had ended up dancing with one of the Almighty Tallest and wasn't quite in any condition to think about it.

After all, it had been a long, long time since Zim had last danced. Due to his height he wasn't really attractive, and his personality wasn't particularly winning—not that he himself was aware of this, of course. All he knew was that for some reason Irkens were rather put-off by his advances. On most days he believed that this was because his sheer awesomeness simply intimidated whomever he was trying to seduce, but today... well.

Today had been odd.

Not in the least because of the all-consuming oddity that was the _Tallest Purple_ actually coming to Earth in order to _dance_ with _Zim_. Everything came back to that. Not that he was complaining, exactly. Oh, no. This would probably be the highlight of any Irken's life.

Zim wished he could just relax and enjoy it, then. Sure, it was awkward—the size difference, the complete lack of prior intimacy between himself and the Tallest Purple, the fact that neither really liked each other personally even if Zim respected Purple as his Tallest—but that shouldn't keep him from enjoying the dance itself, right?

Besides, he reminded himself, he was doing his duty for the Irken Empire.

As of today, this was the only duty Zim had left.

xxx

Zim should have guessed that morning that the day was going to be a strange one, when the demonic-teacher-overlord of his homeroom class had announced that they were doing something _fun_ that day. That in itself should have been a major hint that something wasn't right.

"As much as it pains me to do this," Ms. Airy (who was just as terrifying as Ms. Bitters had been) had said, "the school district insists we keep morale high enough that less than ten percent of the student body attempts suicide over the school year. So save your despair for summer break."

Zim had looked down at his desk, back stiff, horrified. He hadn't been able to believe his hearing for a moment. What indecency! He would _surely_ have to report this to the Tallest... delicately. There were some topics that were simply too vulgar to discuss under any circumstances—topics so taboo that not even Irken news broadcasts would discuss them. For this teacher-fiend to mention the worst of them, suicide, so flippantly in front of so many people... What revolting kind of planet was this? The humans were even filthier beasts than Zim had thought.

"In any case," Ms. Airy continued, "you get a day off. The whole eighth grade's going to the Poop World theme park, trip sponsored by Poop Cola, the great patrons of our school district who want you to rot your teeth out blah blah get out of my classroom."

With that dismissal, the classroom erupted in a cacophony of cheers. Fortunately, Zim had long since gotten over the bewilderment he used to have every time his human classmates spontaneously started being noisy. When they stampeded out the door, Zim leaped out of his seat and let himself be pushed outside.

Somehow, as the students were shoving their way through the halls and out of the school, Dib had navigated his way over to Zim. "Gee, _Zim_, you don't look very happy!" Dib said with exaggerated surprise. "What's the matter? Aren't you excited about the theme park?" He lowered his voice. "Do you know what a theme park _is_, Zim?"

"Of course! Who doesn't?" Zim haughtily lied. "I am thrilled to be going to this park place."

"Oh yeah? If you know so well, then tell me what it is," Dib said.

"I don't need to waste my time explaining a theme park to an ignorant monkey like you," Zim snapped. Dib smirked wickedly and slid back into the crowd of students, moving away—but not far away.

Zim wished he could still keep an eye on Dib. Two years ago, when he had first landed on Earth, it would have been a simple task to monitor him through the crowd. But now... well, in seventh grade they had moved from elementary school to junior high (or "Joonier Hi," as the sign outside said), and the only difference Zim could detect was that he couldn't track Dib anymore because everyone was taller than him. Everyone.

Zim hated this planet.

He endured the bus ride to this theme park by sitting in the back beside his math teacher, Mr. Mudd, who slept through the whole ride. (Mr. Mudd considered Zim his star pupil. Zim considered Mr. Mudd a nincompoop.) Luckily, upon their arrival, a zitty male who seemed to be a park slave appeared and explained the purpose of the theme park. With all the Poop Cola propaganda taken out of the speech, Zim concluded that the theme park was a vast entertainment facility, used to stimulate the microscopic attention spans of humans. The students were supposed to stick together, so the park slave started leading them towards a ride while the teachers loosely surrounded the students, keeping track of them.

The ride they were heading to was called "bumper cars," which sounded incredibly violent. Zim perked up a bit. That sounded good. He was already a genius pilot; surely on a two-dimensional battlefield he could easily slaughter any competition. He'd have a great victory to report to the Tal—

Zim froze in his tracks, almost making a few other students stumble into him, and stared up, gaping. What was that massive thing looming over the park? A wavy rail, held up by the flimsiest of metal structures, with some sort of vehicle rocketing precariously along the rail. Zim could hear the screams of humans trapped in the vehicle. Surely this was a torture device. But what was it doing in an entertainment facility?

"Whatcha looking at, Zimmo?"

Zim glanced sideways at Mr. Mudd, who had stopped walking with the other students. "Uh..."

Mr. Mudd chuckled. "Not scared of roller coasters, are you, Zim?"

"Of course I'm not," he said automatically.

"Are you sure?" Mr. Mudd said, giving him a concerned look (an _evil_ look, Zim thought). "There's nothing wrong with being scared every once in a while, you know."

"Ha! I could ride these roller coasters all day without flinching!" Zim said. To avoid further interrogation, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must rejoin my friends," and stalked off. There were, in fact, three or four human students who claimed Zim was their friend. He used them as convenient and ignored them the rest of the time. He usually couldn't remember their names. Except that human with red hair that used to be such an annoyance, although he was tolerable now that Zim had given him those permanent brain implants... Kif, that was it.

So, this theme park wasn't purely entertainment. It was a way humans asserted their rank on their social ladder, by displaying combat prowess in the bumper cars or fearlessness on the roller coaster. It was an opportunity for Zim to prove his superiority.

"Hey, alien."

Oh, wonderful. Dib had apparently hung back from the main group. He strolled towards Zim, smirking. "You've never gone on the roller coaster before, have you?"

"I... what's it to you?!" Zim said, glaring up at Dib.

Dib's smile widened. "Don't you know, Zim? All humans like roller coasters."

"You think you can fool Zim with such a stupid lie? I know very well that not all of you meat-bags enjoy that ride," he said. How could anyone enjoy a torture device?

Dib's smirk faded. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. "Maybe you _are_ scared."

"Never," Zim snarled.

"Good." Dib leaned over, sticking his ugly nose in Zim's face. "Then how about a challenge? We'll both go on the roller coaster. The first to chicken out... or _die_, is the loser."

Die? Then death was possible on these vehicles? Unless, of course, this was some misguided attempt at intimidation. Yes! That must have been what it was. After all, the Dib-stink was too cowardly to risk his life. Zim shot a glance at the distant rail and at the quickly leaving group of eighth graders. "You're on."

xxx

Zim understood torture strategies quite well. He had studied them, briefly—just as he had studied advanced piloting, biophysics, interplanetary combat, electromagnetic systems, physiology, espionage, A.I. programming, and the fine art of frying stuff.

One of the most well known torture strategies was that of suspense. The anticipation of future pain was enough torture by itself to make the strongest minds crack. Clearly, humans utilized this strategy to its fullest.

That was the only explanation Zim could think of for why he had been in line for the roller coaster for nearly an hour.

"How much longer is it?" Zim demanded for the thousandth time.

"I don't know, Zim," Dib muttered between gritted teeth. Zim hoped this was a sign that he was about to crack under the pressure and admit defeat. "We'll get there when we get there."

"That's circular reasoning, y'know," Zim pointed out. "When else would we get there? Sometimes you humans baffle even _me_ with your stupidity, and I'm _used_ to you."

Dib shot Zim an exasperated glare, and then returned to trying to ignore him, leaning on his elbows on the wooden railing that surrounded the line for the ride. After a moment, he mused to himself, "That phrase _is_ pretty dumb..."

The roller coaster carts pulled back into place, and the attendant unlatched the safety bars so the riders could get out and wobble their ways to the exit. "Next!" he shouted.

Zim glanced at the carts, and then counted the number of people in front of him. He was up next. "Finally!" He shoved past the rest of the line to get to the attendant faster. "Hey _you_! Park slave!" he shouted up at him. "I demand a place in your filthy torture-cart! Zim does not fear your coasters!"

The attendant gave Zim a baffled look. "Er... wait a sec," he said, hurrying over to his control booth and looking for something on the floor.

"A sec? I don't have a sec to waste! What's taking so long?" Zim looked at the closest cart. Maybe if he made a run for it...

The attendant returned with a long ruler, which he stood up beside Zim. At the top was a miniature wooden cut-out of Poop Dawg, with his arm extended horizontally and a word bubble that said "You gotta be this wit' it to be jammin' on da trip, yo." Um. Was that supposed to make sense to humans?

"Sorry," the attendant said, pointing at the word bubble. "You're too short."

"No I'm not!" Zim said, and then paused. "Too short for what?"

"The ride. You've got to be this tall to get on," the attendant said, pointing at Poop Dawg's outstretched arm. The line was a quarter of a foot over Zim's head. "I can't let you on."

Zim stared at the ruler. "I... I... you what?"

The attendant sighed impatiently. "The exit's over there," he said, pointing at a set of double doors with peeling grey paint. "I've got to load the others."

Zim was still staring dumbly at the Poop Dawg. He had failed this quest to prove his superiority to the humans. He hadn't been able to ride the roller coaster. He was... _inferior_.

"No! _Wait!_" Zim clung to the attendant's pant leg as he tried to walk to the next in line. "Let me on! I can conquer this roller coaster blindfolded. Just let me in. I'll ride it like it's never been ridden before!"

"Sorry?" the attendant said uncomfortable. "Rules are rules, little guy." He tried to shake Zim off.

Zim flinched. _Little guy_?

"Maybe if you come back in a year, after you've grown some." The attendant gave Zim a critical look. "Or maybe three years."

Zim finally let go. Then this, this was a permanent defeat. Zim would never grow. "But..."

The attendant ignored him and started loading other, _taller_ riders into the carts. As Dib passed, he looked annoyed, but managed a snicker when he saw Zim. "See you after the ride, shorty." Zim noticed dully that Poop Dawg's arm only went up to Dib's nose.

That was too much. Publicly humiliated, Zim walked out of the exit, into the theme park, and headed towards the way out with his head low. In his mind, the laughs of the humans having fun were jeers directed at him. 

Zim forced himself to hold his head high and march with his back straight, not looking at anyone or anything. An Invader must demonstrate the ideals of all Irkens at all times, including never, ever showing pain.

He headed home among the mocking laughter of those taller than him, trying to maintain his dignity and trying to tell himself that he didn't care about what everyone around him thought of his height—they'd see what he could do soon enough. Soon enough.

It felt just like home again.

xxx

Zim entered his base to discover no less than two hundred enchiladas painstakingly laid on the floor, like a carpet. He gaped at them for a moment, and managed to collect himself enough to shout, "GIR!"

For a moment, nothing; then Zim noticed that some of the enchiladas were _moving_. He was on the verge of ordering the computer incinerate the unholy cheesy beast, when he realized that it was just Gir. Coated in enchiladas.

"Gir? What is this—"

"Shhh!" Gir hissed. "They're sleeping."

Zim stared at the mass of food. Knowing Gir and his tendency to do very stupid things, it was probably beef. Zim was allergic to beef. "Gir, _why_ is this room coated with food from Mexico?"

"They didn't have a home!" Gir said. "They _need_ me!"

"Fascinating." Zim extended his Pak legs to walk over the mess. "Computer!"

"Whaaat?"

"Clean out this mess! I want this room spotless within ten degrees," he said, to Gir's wail of agony.

"Uh, that's about... an hour, right?" the computer said uncertainly.

This was what Zim got for steadily replacing parts of his system with human technology; a computer that couldn't tell Irken time and that liked to display the Blue Screen of Death when it was in a bad mood. "Yes, computer. It's a little over an hour."

"Right."

Zim retracted his legs to climb into the kitchen toilet and take the lift down to the subterranean levels of the base. "I don't want to be bothered for the rest of the day except in case of an emergency," he said. "Understood?"

"Sure."

"I expect more respect than that, computer!" Zim said as he stepped out of the lift. "_Do you understand_?"

"Uh... sure."

"Rrgh!" Zim kicked at the nearest computer consol. "Shut up!" He stomped into the spherical recharge chamber, slamming the button to shut the door with enough force to make it shoot out a few sparks.

"Sheesh. Somebody's touchy today," the computer muttered.

In the recharge chamber, Zim settled back in the chair (which was much too large for him; recharge chambers were designed to be one-size-fits-all), adjusted his position to let the plugs on the chair attach to his Pak, and used the connection to turn on the computer screen in front of the chair.

Recharge chambers were designed so that an Irken could refuel their Pak while mentally wired-in to a computer, so they wouldn't have to lose contact with the outside world; however, Zim kept the screen on for less than a minute before he turned it off. He didn't want contact with the outside. He wanted to stay in here until he could convince himself that the entire day had been an irrelevant accident full of strangeness, and that the worst of it was over. Zim needed to recover his pride.

There was a reason why he had wanted so badly to be an Invader, even when there were so many other jobs that offered equal honor in the Empire; Frylord, Royal Inventor, Communication or Navigation Technician on the Massive. Zim was quite certain, in the way he was ridiculously certain about absolutely everything he did, that he would have been more than qualified for any of these positions. Except in one aspect. Height.

The Irken Military was the only exception to the rule. Everyone had a chance at glory. Everyone could become a hero—and even if some would never receive recognition for their heroism, if the Empire refused to reward them simply because they were _lacking_ in some way, the fact would remain that they gave some great service to the Empire that nobody could take back. Becoming an Invader, however, actually offered that recognition. No matter what your height was, if you conquered a planet, then that planet was _yours_.

That was why Zim had devoted his life to becoming an Invader. The Tallest actually needed short Irkens for the job, because depending on the native population of a world, a larger Irken might not always blend in. This was the only way Zim could demonstrate to Irk what he believed to be the sheer amazingness of his abilities.

He didn't need to be reminded on the very world he was intending to conquer that, no matter what he did, he would still be tiny.

Zim had almost convinced himself that the entire day was just a fluke, when the day decided to get stranger.

The computer screen turned itself on. "Uh, Zim? You have—"

"Computer!" Zim snapped. "I told you not to bother me unless there's an emergency!"

"That's what I'm saying!" the computer protested. "There's an Irken Spittle Runner in orbit and it's hailing you. It wants to land."

"What?" Zim unplugged his Pak from the chair, hit the button to open the recharge chamber, and ran to the nearest lift. "Why didn't you tell me? Who is it? Anyone of rank?"

"Uh, yeah. It's—"

"Tell them they can land in ten minutes! I need to prepare myself," Zim said.

"Actually," the computer said tentatively, "he already landed. He ordered me to let him in."

"What?!"

"I told you he's high-ranked."

Zim stared at the speaker in disbelief. "You stupid—"

"What was I supposed to do?" the computer demanded. "Say no to the _Tallest_?"

"Of course! Never do anything without my..." Zim blinked. "Who?"

The lift door opened, revealing the Spittle Runner and the Irken climbing out of it. Zim froze in the lift, staring as the Almighty Tallest Purple surveyed the hangar of his base, disdainfully glancing at Zim's Voot Cruiser.

The Tallest caught sight of Zim. "Oh," he said. "Hi."

Zim attempted to collect himself and took a few trembling steps forward. "M-my Tallest. I—" the lift door slammed shut at his heels and he jumped. Hastily saluting, he said, "It's an honor to have you here, sir!" You have no idea—"

"Yes, yes, you're humbled in my presence and will remember this day until you die," Purple said flatly. "Look, this isn't a social visit, and I promise you, I do not want to be here. So if you can just—"

"This is a social visit?" Zim said excitedly. "I... well, of course, I fully understand why you would want to spend time with someone as amazing as myself, my Tallest, but it is still an honor to—"

"No! Are you even listening to me?" Purple made an annoyed noise, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles. Zim noticed for the first time that he wasn't in his Tallest uniform; all his armor and his hover-belt were gone, leaving only a sleeveless, striped white shirt, and his ankle-length skirt. Sure seemed like something someone would do on a social visit. "This is _business_, Zim. A—new mission for you, okay?"

Zim's eyes widened. "A new mission? What... kind of mission?"

Purple sighed again, and screwed his eyes shut. In a strained voice, he said, "I need... you to... bear my offspring."

Zim stared at Purple. "Huh?"

Purple opened one eye. "Lay eggs, Zim," he said, his voice even more pained. "Have smeets."

Zim nodded, very slowly. "Okaaay," he said. "So..."

"So?" Purple prompted.

"So," Zim said, "who are you really, and what have you done with the real Tallest Purple?"

"Oh, come on!" Purple said. "I do _not_ need this, Zim."

"Mm-hmm." Zim drew a laser and aimed it at his Tallest's head. Purple took a step back, alarmed. "Start talking, imposter."

Purple groaned. "I knew this was going to be a bad day."

xxxxx


	2. Bell Curves

By the gods, people are actually reading this! Yeah, I'm surprised. (Not that I'm complaining, oh no...) Thank you all so much for you reviews! I hope you all enjoy, and please remember to review this chapter!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Bell Curves

xxx

Approximate text adaptation of the memory records of Tallest Purple's Pak, four weeks ago at 170°130' Irken time, or approx. 6:30 pm: _I've spent all day at the Primary Birthing Facility with a swarm of Technicians to check out all the machines and programs, but so far they can't find any errors in anything. Everything looks like it's running fine, which means the problem's either hidden really, really well, or some outside force is causing the genetic mixers to malfunction. This can't be random chance._

_I mean, the statistics don't lie. Our species is changing and not for the better; how can it be good, when almost no Irkens with a normal height have been born in over 200 years? Huh? But Red and the Control Brains both told me not to worry about it, nothing's wrong. Okay, Red I can understand. He may be a good public speaker (fine, a GREAT public speaker, lucky bug), but he's not exactly the brightest Tallest we've ever had. We could use Miyuki back..._

_The Control Brains, though, that's just weird. They've got better access to the records of DNA mixes and Irken demographics than even I do, so shouldn't they realize that the random genetic mixers in the Birthing Facilities aren't random anymore? I figure they're glitched up, too; they can't possibly have recovered yet after that horrible trial with Zim. In fact, I'd probably be blaming Zim for all this, except the problem's been going on for twenty eras. Zim isn't anywhere near two hundred years old._

_Red's not gonna help, and I've assigned my Technician swarm to check the Control Brains for any problems. Hells, I've even got a _Vortian_ helping them out. But if they don't find anything, I'm just gonna have to solve this problem myself._

_I really, REALLY don't want to think about how I'm going to do that._

xxx

It took the better part of the evening for Purple to convince Zim that he really was the Tallest. In the end, Zim insisted on pulling out an electron ruler to calculate Purple's exact height quotient before he was convinced.

"You're almost a fourth of a unit too tall," Zim said, frowning in puzzlement. "How can an imposter be taller than the Tallest?"

"That's because Red and I round our heights," Purple said wearily. "If someone asks our height it's a lot easier to say 217 units than to say 217.239046 units." Red's height was actually 217.240081 units, but potential Tallest were legally defined as the same height if they were within .1 units of the actual tallest Irken, luckily for Purple.

"Oh. Yeah," Zim said. He still looked baffled. Most Irken citizens were when they found out. Purple had experienced this enough times to know what Zim was thinking: you, the Almighty Tallest, would round your height _down_ a fourth of a unit? You're so astoundingly tall that you can cut off some of your own height without losing any of your authority?

"Now do you believe me?" Purple asked.

"Yes, my Tallest," Zim said, and saluted. "My sincerest apologies! I merely had... difficulty believing that such a... eh... unusual request could come from you."

"You and me both," Purple said sourly. The chairs in Zim's base were too small for him, so he sat on a counter, and Zim apparently took this as permission to sit in a chair himself. "Keep this in mind, Zim. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. But Red doesn't believe me, and something's probably wrong with the Control Brains," Purple said. "I think there's a problem with the birthing facilities."

"I see," Zim said thoughtfully. "I agree fully, my Tallest."

"You _do_?" Could Zim actually have been observant enough to notice the strange changes in the Irken species? It was unlikely (_very_ unlikely), but maybe being the shortest Irken to ever exist gave him a unique perspective on the empire's heights.

"I do," Zim said. "I myself have observed that most modern Irkens are a bunch of feeble weakling losers and not worthy of the empire. So, you must be planning to fix this by breeding smeets with the most superior genes possible, a mix between an Almighty Tallest and the greatest Irken to ever live. I understand now why you came to me for assistance." Zim beamed up at Purple.

Oh, for the love of Irk. "It's because you're so short," Purple snapped. He wasn't going to let this turn into another ego trip for Zim.

Zim visibly flinched. His head jerked back, shoulders hunched up, antennae flattened against his head, back hunched forward, slouching down in his chair. Hs smile changed to a grimace, his bright eyes dimmed in puzzlement and—hurt. Purple had never seen Zim look _hurt_ before. Stupid, confused, angry, scared for his life... but never hurt. Zim said quietly, "Then... if that's what you wanted, my Tallest, you certainly chose the right..." He trailed off into incoherent mumbles.

May the Firmament teach Purple patience because he'd never be able to put up with Zim without it. "Look, do you want a super-secret special mission or not?"

"Of course I do!" Zim said brightly, straightening up and saluting, but something about his enthusiasm seemed off. "But if I may ask, my Tallest, why do you need an Irken... like me?"

Purple hesitated. "Er..." This would be a long explanation. Then again, he couldn't very well expect Zim to be contented with no explanation—stupid he was, easily satisfied he was not. "All right," he said, and took a small panel out of his Pak, a computer screen. "You can read bell curves, can't you?"

"Of course I can," Zim said proudly. "I do it all the time!"

"Fine," Purple said. He sincerely doubted that, but lit up the panel anyway. It displayed a normal-looking bell curve graph, a hill over a number line, with the peak of the hill directly over 100. "This was the height quotient distribution of Irkens four hundred years ago. Most Irkens were about 100 units tall, average height."

"Hmm." Zim nodded, leaning forward in his chair and studying the graph.

"The range of heights was between 80 and 120 units. Tallest Litchi was 137 units tall, and the shortest Irken on record was 66."

Zim nodded again, then frowned. "Only 137? Buy didn't you say that you're—"

"Yes, Zim, I'm getting to that," Purple interrupted before Zim could start singing praises to his and Red's superior heights. "_This_ is a graph of the height distribution today."

The display on the panel changed. Zim's antennae stood up. "Is there... something wrong with that?" he asked. Purple understood why he was baffled.

"Nope. It's correct."

On the bell curve, the hill over 100 units had collapsed down to nothing, and there were _two_ new ones: one hill over 70 units, another over 130, marking the average heights of modern Irkens. While the original graph had extended between 50 units for the shortest Irkens and 150 units for the tallest, this one ended below 0 and over 200.

"There are almost no Irkens with heights between 90 and 110 units. None," Purple said. "That used to be _average_ height. Most Irkens today are either between 40 and 80, or between 120 and 160—nothing in between. The Tallest, Red and I, are 217 units, and the shortest Irken alive is negative 12. Which means the empire—"

He was cut off by a horrified screech. "I-I'm a _negative height_?!" Zim wailed. "But _how_?"

Purple rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Zim," he said. "This height curve graph isn't based on a single unit, it's a measure of how close an Irken is to average height. It just wasn't calculated to measure someone as short as you, that's all. Okay?"

Another wail. Zim squeezed his eyes shut and pulled at his antennae in aggravation. "First the roller coaster and now this?!" he said, curling up in a ball on his seat. "I'm the only negative Irken in the universe!"

Roller coaster? What was that? "Open your eyes, you're going to suffocate yourself like that," Purple said. "No, you're not the only negative Irken, okay? I think Skoodge is a negative 3."

Zim quieted and peeked up at Purple. "Twelve is a bigger number than three, isn't it?" he said hopefully.

Sometimes, Purple really had to wonder what sort of insane logic Zim functioned on. "If it makes you feel better."

"All right!" Zim flashed one of his typical megalomaniacal smiles, then grabbed Purple's panel to study the graph. "So what's wrong with this?" he asked. "Taller Tallest are good, right? And shorter Irkens are just more inferior fools to become Labor Drones for us superior Irkens to boss around."

Says the Irken who, if there were any justice in the Firmament, should have been a Drone himself. "Well, yeah, taller Tallest ARE good. Especially for me," Purple said. "But all this isn't good for the whole empire." He pointed at the valley in the graph over 100 units. "See that? Know what that is?"

Zim stared at the graph. "The bell curve thingy?" he offered.

Purple groaned. "No, Zim, I meant that dip in the curve. _That_ is what the evolution of a species looks like."

"Really? Doesn't evolution mean we get wings?" Zim asked eagerly. At Purple's blank look, he said, "Y'know, really thin ones? Not like bird wings, those are ugly."

"No, Zim."

"What?! I thought we were gonna get wings!"

"_No!_" Purple shut his eyes and counted to ten. He could really use a snack right now. "Zim. Listen. There are several ways a species evolves. On is by getting split in half," he said as patiently as possible. "And then half of the species, as it breeds, will change. Say, it gets a new eye color. Or really big teeth. And since both halves of the species are evolving separately, a bell curve comparing the new teeth sizes to the old teeth sizes," he pointed at his panel, "will look like this. Because half the species is evolving one way, and half is evolving another. This is what happens when a species splits in half. Get it so far?"

Zim nodded slowly. "So, this chart thingy shows Irken teeth size..."

"_No!_ It's STILL HEIGHT! You _stupid_ little..." Purple had to forcibly resist the urge to wring Zim by the neck. He turned around so he wouldn't have to actually look at the diminutive defective exile. "Why did I think this would work? Huh? Why?! Stupid plan, Pur. Stupid, stupid plan!"

There was an awkward silence. "Do you... want something to eat?" Zim asked tentatively. "I have snacks."

Purple nodded tiredly. "Yeah, why not?"

xxx

It took three candy bars and two jumbo bags of chips before Purple calmed down enough to actually talk to Zim again. "How did you get this stuff, anyway?" he asked, looking at the empty bags and wrappers, stamped with the Irken corporate logo. He and Red sure hadn't been shipping Zim supplies; they'd thought all this time that he was surviving on Earthen weeds and sticks or something.

"I ordered it from Callnowia," Zim said. He was sitting across the table, trying to shake the crumbs out of the two chip bags Purple had finished.

"All your food?" Purple said, stunned. "For two years? But you were fined for every money you had after Operation Impending Doom I. You should be broke!"

"Is that what happened? I always knew there'd been some sort of mistake," Zim said cheerfully. "Anyway, until I get my own monies back, I make some spare monies from Earthen exports."

This was news to Purple. "Earthen exports? What kind of exports?"

"Mostly tanks of hydroxylic acid."

Purple choked on part of his fourth candy bar. "Wh-_what?!_ You've been sending huge tanks of _water_ into the Irken Empire?! Do you have any idea how closely we monitor the distribution of hydroxylic acid?"

"Yeah, that's why they pay me a lot," Zim said proudly. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he had become a smuggler of the most dangerous black market good in the Irken Empire. Where could he possibly get water on such a backwards planet as Earth, anyway?

No. Purple could deal with that later. (Probably the next time an alien assassin went after him and Red with a bucket of water, courtesy of Earthen exports.) For now, he had other issues to deal with. "Anyway, Zim. Do you get what I was trying to show you with the graphs now?"

"Of course," Zim said, as if it were obvious all along. "The empire is splitting in two. That's bad."

"Yes, Zim, that's very bad," Purple said, hoping he sounded more helpful than sarcastic. How to explain the next part, the reason he had come to Earth in the first place...

"But there's one thing I don't quite get, my Tallest," Zim said. "You said this evolvy thing happens when a species splits in half and they can't reach each other, right? That would _never_ happen on Irk."

For once, Zim was right. With every Irken alive born in the smeet birthing facilities, and the Control Brains carefully ensuring that all genetic mixes were perfectly random, there should have been no way the Irken race evolved at all, much less started evolving into two, separate species.

The mere thought sent chills along Purple's antennae. The proud Irken race, literally and irreparably torn apart... It was every Tallest's nightmare, that millions of years in the future, every time a newborn smeet's Pak received its programming, they would learn that _he_ was the Tallest who had let ruin fall upon the empire.

"I don't get it either," Purple said. "It shouldn't be happening, but it is."

"You should check the birth thingy," Zim said.

"The _birthing facilities_. And I did."

"Oh." Zim put on a thoughtful expression for a moment. "Hah! I've got it! Maybe all the average height Irkens are stupid and keep dying!"

Purple stared at Zim. "No."

Zim cackled. "I _knew_ it!"

"I said NO, Zim!"

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure." Purple glanced at the table and realized that all the snacks were gone. He sighed. This just had to get harder, didn't it?

"Look. I'll say this one more time: I'm not here to just talk to you, and I don't want you to help figure out what's gone wrong. You're just going to do what I say so I can fix it," Purple said. "Red doesn't believe me, nobody can find a problem with the birthing facilities, and I think it'll be too late to fix anything unless I act now." He looked at the empty candy wrappers to avoid looking at Zim. "That's where you come in."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Yeah, I still don't see why all this means that I have to... do all that... stuff," Zim said. "With the carrying-your-eggs thing."

"Think about it," Purple said. "I'm 217 units tall, you're -12. We're at the extreme ends of Irken height. But, if you averaged our heights together, they would be..."

"Almost exactly 100 units," Zim said, his eyes brightening with understanding—a first, Purple was sure.

"Yeah, 100 units. Which is the height my empire needs more of."

Slowly, a look of pure horror crossed Zim's face. "Wait—how many smeets do we need to make?"

Purple thought of his bell curves, and envisioned the hill over 100 units on the first graph as a giant pile of smeets—and then as a very big ditch in the second graph. It would take a whole lot of smeets to fill that ditch in and make it a hill again. Millions. _Billions._ "Hopefully, I can figure out the problem before then."

Zim nodded weakly. "I have... complete faith in you, my Tallest," he said, with absolutely no faith in his voice.

Purple pushed back his chair and stood up, glanced around the strange kitchen—he didn't know much about Earthen culture, but Zim seemed to have done a surprisingly good job creating a convincingly disguised base, especially with that "Earth food rocks" poster. He wondered whether or not Zim might have been a good Invader after all. If, y'know, he didn't have a super-defective Pak. "So," he said, as Zim started to stand. "We've got to get this over with sooner or later. Let's go get you the surgery you'll need."

Zim fell out of his chair. "_Surgery_? I agreed to none of your surgery!" he said. "What kind of surgery could Zim possibly need?"

"What kind of surgery do you _think_ you need? Did you expect to lay an egg out your anus?" Purple snapped. "That's just stupid."

"But Irkens don't have anu—"

"I know, Zim," Purple said. "Irkens don't have genitalia, either. At least, we're not born with them. Do you have a med bay?"

"But what do genitalia have to—"

"MED BAY!"

"Eh..." Zim pointed into the living room. "There's a lift under the sofa."

Purple swept past Zim and into the living room. (The effect would have been much more dramatic if he had come to this planet with his hover-belt... Oh, well.) "Computer? The lift."

"Yes sir, Almighty Tallest Purple."

Zim walked up beside Purple, muttering to the computer, "You never show me that kind of respect..." He cleared his throat. "My Tallest, I don't think all of this is necessary. I'm sure I can handle anything you need of me without doing anything... strange to my body."

Purple wondered why Zim was making such a big deal over this; he didn't even know what he was supposed to do yet. "Irkens haven't reproduced naturally in millennia, Zim. This whole thing is strange," he said, as they both got on the lift. As it lowered, the sofa fell back in place over their heads. "We both need to do some weird stuff to our bodies." Purple had already gotten surgery. Not that he intended to tell Zim all the details.

"But—my apologies, my Tallest, but it sounds as if you expect me to become a _layer_," Zim said. "Which is just... _hideously_ stupid! I mean, that's impossible, isn't it?"

"No, not impossible. Just... very painful."

Zim's eyes got so wide that Purple was afraid he'd start hyperventilating. "_No!_" he said, shaking his head. He crossed his arms over his torso and backed against a wall of the lift. "Never! You can't make me! I refuse to go through with this!"

Oh hells above, why did Zim have to be the shortest Irken alive?! Skoodge was obedient and he'd been -14 units before his final growth spurt. Why couldn't it have been Skoodge? "Why not, Zim?" Purple said wearily. He'd just about had it with this nonsense.

"Because then I'll have to be a _girl!_" Zim said. "Like TAK!"

"Oh, come on! That's the dumbest—"

"I don't care!" Zim scowled furiously at Purple. "You forget that there is one and ONLY one Zim! ME! And I refuse to be anything that is NOT me! Not an Inventor, not a Frycook, not a failure, and not a _layer_!"

The lift stopped, the wall behind Zim slid back, and he shot four metal legs out of his Pak and tore away from Purple. In only a few seconds he was out of sight.

"Zim? ZIM! Get back here!" Purple ordered. What could drag him out? "I'll give you a snack from Sintillia!" Nothing. That worked on most Irkens.

"Computer, stop him," he said, walking out of the lift and looking back and forth. Most of the lights in the subterranean levels of Zim's base were dimmed or off to conserve power; that also made it easier for Zim to hide.

"What, are you joking? With all due respect, Almighty Tallest, he'd totally kill me," the computer said.

"Fine! Worthless," Purple snapped. He really wouldn't mind letting Zim run off and hide. If Purple never saw Zim again in his life, he could die happy.

And yet... he couldn't do this alone. As much as he loathed to admit it, Purple needed someone to help him pull this plan off, someone very short, and Zim was the best candidate for the job. He had to get Zim's help.

There had to be _something_ he could say to get the stupid little defect to show himself. It was no wonder Zim had gotten himself banished...

_That was it!_ "Zim," Purple shouted. "I thought you wanted to be a hero for the Irken Empire!"

There wasn't a sound. Purple hoped Zim was still listening. "This is your best chance. Think how much the empire would love you if you were able to help save the Irken race. And you're the only one who can do it, Zim. The fate of the empire rests on you."

That, Purple thought, was the most brilliant load of dookie he had ever come up with.

And Zim bought every word. Within a few seconds, Zim emerged from the gloomy corridor he'd run down, head held high with pride. "I'd gladly serve my Tallest," he said, saluting smartly. "Even if I do have to become a girl."

"Good," Purple said, relieved that disaster had been averted. "So which way's the med bay?"

"This way, my Tallest," Zim said, and led Purple down another pathway.

"Anyway," Purple said, "you're not actually going to be a girl, Zim. I mean... really, you're not girly at all. You're just going to be a layer. Lay eggs and stuff. That doesn't mean you have to curl your antennae or anything." Irkens had been sterile for so long that they no longer associated their gender—girly or boyish—with any sort of physical sex; only the actual genes. If the entire empire woke up the next day with genitalia, completely randomly assigned, it wouldn't affect their sense of self-identity—and a male Irken who woke up with layer genitalia wouldn't be any less male for it. Just a male that could lay eggs.

"Oh. Good." Zim pressed his palm against a wall panel to open a door marked "MED BAY," then turned to look oddly at Purple before he stepped through. "Hey, if I'm the layer, then that means you're the fertilizer. Right?"

"Yeah?" Purple said.

"So that means," Zim continued, "to make an egg, we're going to have to da—"

"_Shut up_," Purple said. He didn't want to hear about it until he absolutely had to.

Zim's face lit up like he had just been handed a one-way ticket to Purechocolatia. "Of course, my Tallest!" He ran into the med bay, grinning crazily. "What are you waiting for?!" he bellowed at the computer. "Do the surgery thingy!"

"But I don't know how."

"Make something up! HURRY!"

Purple hadn't expected such a sudden change. Zim wasn't reluctant at all anymore. Exactly how long had it been since the guy had got a dance, anyway? Considering his height and his reputation, Purple wouldn't have been surprised if he'd never danced before. Zim would have stopped looking attractive once they'd completed their training under the surface of Irk, once everyone was a full head taller than him... Purple almost found himself pitying Zim.

Almost.

"Computer, analyze and execute this program," Purple said, pulling a disk out of his Pak and holding it up for the nearest computer modem to scan. It had taken him a week to track down two of these, one for layers and one for fertilizers: ancient files that had been used by medical robots to do genital reassignment surgery, years before Irkens had lost their sexes all together.

"Analyzing... gimme a sec..." The computer hummed to itself for a few seconds. "Done! Executing program."

No less than twenty medical tools on long metallic arms popped from panels all over the room, a ridiculously wide variety of blades, scalpels, saws, needles, and wrenches; one arm snatched Zim up, shoved him onto an operation table, and fastened him down with three steel straps. All the eagerness fled from Zim's face. "M-my Tallest?"

"Good work, Zim. You're doing your empire proud!" Purple said, tapping the panel to open the door and backing out of the med bay. The door was almost shut when the screaming started.

Purple was glad that much was over. He'd known from the start that getting Zim this far would be like jumping in a pool of boiling water, but that didn't make it any easier.

The surgery to give Zim all the necessary organs and external structures would take at least 30°, plus another 10 to 20° to let him recover—a little over five "hours" by the Earthen measurement of time, if Purple had done his research right; it was always good to understand the planet you were on—so Purple had some time to waste. He made his way upstairs, tried to figure out how to turn on the big human screen in the living room (a teevy, Zim had called it, right?), ran into Zim's defective SIR unit, and spent at least ten minutes listening to it tell a story and wondering what on Irk it was talking about.

He was quite fine with listening to the defective SIR. He was quite happy with doing anything, really, other than think about what he'd have to do once Zim had recovered.

If his little visit with Zim had been a dip in a pool up until this point, the next part would be like swimming across an ocean of hydroxylic acid.

xxxxx


	3. Spittle Runner

I've yet to receive any death threats for writing this fic. I am thrilled to no end by this. Thank you all so much for the love so far, and please remember to review! Hope you enjoy chapter 3 (and oh, what a chapter it is).

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Spittle Runner

xxx

From Dib's notes, five months ago: _Okay, I think I finally cracked the time system that Zim's species uses, mostly. I guessed at half of it so who knows. Hopefully I'm lucky_.

_I figured out the system from the two transmissions from Irk that I managed to intercept fully. They both had a time stamp encoded in them when they were recorded. One of the transmissions was a news report about traffic jams on Parkinglotia—wonder what Parkinglotia is?—and the other was Zim's request for supplies. Here's an example of one of the time stamps: 29837 / 4 / 4.5 / 151° 76' 12"_

_Whoever came up with this thing is completely insane. Let's start simple_.

_The last number, 151°76'12", is the time. I think Zim's planet must have a day about as long as ours, because 220° is about 24 hours. I can't tell what the last two numbers are supposed to be—maybe minutes and seconds?—so I just use the first number, 151. So, 10° is about an hour and five minutes, so if I round it, 150° is about 15 hours and... fifteen times five... 75 minutes? So, sixteen hours and fifteen minutes, or 4:15 PM. Add in the spare numbers and it's probably closer to 4:30, but I'm not even trying to get a precise number_.

_10° equals 65 minutes, 110° is noon, that's all I'm bothering with_.

_I have no idea what the 4.5 means. Maybe months? I just ignore it_.

_Now, the first two numbers are interesting. 29837 is the "era" Zim's world is in. To them, an era is ten years. The 4 is which year of the era they're in. So, basically the recording was made in Irken year 298374 at 4:15-ish in the afternoon._

_But that's not the weirdest part: Zim's years are ten times longer than ours. So, an "era" to them is a century to us. Which means, by Earth standards, they're in year 2983740. Zim's species has been keeping track of its written history for _three million years.

_Imagine, that one race can be that old—can have records that old. Humans can't even remember half of their own history, maybe 3000 years out of a few thousand total. How could any species survive as long as the Irkens?_

_You've gotta think that Zim's species has done some really, REALLY crazy things to keep itself going this long._

xxx

Zim had never been in such agony before.

Well, okay, he _had_, that time on Foodcourtia when he'd been standing over the deep fat frying tank to add some more lard, slipped, and fell in. He'd never forget what it was like to be completely submerged in a red-hot mix of grease and hydroxylic acid. And then a bunch of _leeches_ had attacked him.

Apparently, deep-fat-fried live leeches were a delicacy on Blorch.

But this, this was certainly a comparable pain. At least this time he was enduring the pain for the good of the Irken Empire. That helped a little.

According to his Pak, he'd been half-asleep for the past 20° as he recovered from the surgery. His Pak was filtering air for him, so he could shut his eyes and rest.

Over the whir of the air filters, he faintly heard a door slide open and footsteps enter the med bay. Zim opened his eyes halfway; his air filters turned off now that he was breathing for himself, and the three colored panels on his Pak clicked shut. "M-my Tallest?"

There wasn't an answer, but a moment later the lights came on and Zim could see.

"Well?" Purple asked. "Did it work?"

"I... think so, my Tallest," Zim said, trying to keep the pain from his voice. "I haven't checked yet."

"Of course it worked," the computer piped in proudly. "I'm one-third Macintosh. I can do anything!"

Once again, Zim regretted using Earthen parts to repair his computer. With his luck, the computer had fused him with a sheep or something.

"Let me see," Purple said, walking up to Zim and pulling up his uniform. He squinted an eye. "Whoa. That's weird."

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Zim demanded, struggling to lift his head and peer down at his torso. Starting at his lower stomach was a strange vertical slit, traveling down and half-hidden by the top of his pants. "An _open wound?_ COMPUTER!"

"Whaaat?!"

"What did you do to me?!" Zim shouted, panicking.

"It's supposed to look like that, Zim. Calm down," Purple said. He jerked Zim's uniform back into place and stepped back, crossing his arms. It was an uncommon gesture among Irkens, defensive. "So. Ready?" he said shortly.

Well, considering the pain and the fact that he could hardly move... Then again, Zim would never turn down a challenge. Or, for that matter, an offer from a Tallest to _dance_. "Of course I'm ready!" Zim said, and tried to sit up. "You can't even imagine how ready I—_urk!_" Zim fell back down on the operation table, clutching his lower abdomen.

"Don't be a moron, Zim," Purple said. "We're not going to do this if it'll kill your or something. _Then_ how will I get any eggs?"

He had a point. There was no use rushing this if it prevented Zim from doing his duty. Besides, Zim planned on enjoying every damn second he got to dance with the Tallest.

Zim extended his Pak-legs and used them to carefully maneuver his way off the operation table and stand (sorta) in front of Purple. In polite company, it was considered rude for shorter Irkens to artificially enhance their height, especially with Pak-legs, except under circumstances where it was necessary. Zim considered a recent surgery to be one of those exceptions. And in any case, surely he was so amazing that the normal rules didn't apply to him. "I'll be fine in no time at all, my Tallest!" Zim said, and saluted.

"You'd better," Purple muttered. Arms still crossed, he leaned his back against the wall as he spoke. "In any case, I need to give you some rules on how this... er, mission is going to work. So pay attention."

Zim nodded and watched Purple intently as he talked. Not a word would escape Zim's alert hearing!

"It'll take about four weeks to grow the eggs. That shouldn't be..."

Zim's attention drifted from his Tallest to the wall behind him. He wondered what horrible thing the cafeteria would be serving tomorrow... oh, right. School. He'd left in the middle of the day, hadn't he? Maybe no one would notice since they'd been on a field trip...

"Zim! ATTENTION!" Purple shouted.

Zim snapped his attention back to Purple. "Whuh?"

"This is _important stuff!_" Purple wiggled his fingers to emphasize the stuff's importantness. "You can't just stare off into space!"

"I wasn't! I was paying attention," Zim lied. "I was just... thinking of a question. Yes! Zim has a question!"

"Oh, really?" Purple gave Zim a disbelieving look, eyes half-lidded. "What is it?"

"Eh..." Zim thought fast. "Why must Zim be the layer? Why couldn't I have been the fertilizer?"

Purple looked awkwardly at the ceiling. "Umm... because."

"Because why?" Zim asked.

"Because because."

"Because because why?"

"Because because... because." Purple put his hands on his hips. "So there!"

"Why?!" Zim pointed at Purple commandingly. "Tell Zim!"

"Hey!" Purple pointed back, his finger almost poking Zim in the chest. "You don't give your Tallest orders!" He sighed. "Fine, Zim. If it'll get you to shut up. Reason one: do you see how skinny I am?"

Zim looked at Purple's torso. "Freakishly."

"Yeah, freakishly." Purple either hadn't noticed the slight insult (not, of course, that Zim had intended it as an insult), or had heard it enough times that he didn't take offense at it. "And I'm the Tallest—I'm on news broadcasts every day. This is supposed to be a super-secret mission, so how long do you think it'd be before the entire empire noticed that I'm growing eggs?"

"Six days!"

Purple glared at Zim. "I didn't want an answer."

"Oh."

"And you're isolated way out here on Earth," Purple continued. "So no one will find out if you're growing eggs."

Zim had to admit, that made sense...

"Two: if someone _does_ find out, there's less damage this way. I mean, if someone finds out that I, a Tallest, did freaky stuff to my body so I could lay eggs, they'll think I'm crazy! ... Maybe I am." Purple shook his head and went on. "But if they find out the same thing about you, they'll just say, 'Typical! What _else_ do you expect from _Zim?_'"

Something about that sounded funny. "Hey! What does that mean? What _do_ they expect from Zim?"

Purple gave Zim an uncomfortable look. "Uh... Three: because I said you're the layer and I'm the Tallest. No more questions. Got it?"

"Yes sir!" Zim said, saluting. But still, something seemed off...

"As I was saying before you interrupted," Purple said testily. "We're going to have to be very careful in how we handle this. I mean, you can't just contact the Massive as soon as you lay the eggs. Everyone would find out."

"But how am I supposed to inform you when my super-secret mission has been completed?"

"Er... I suppose..." A pained expression crossed Purple's face. "You'll have to... Ah, voids." Looking supremely irritated, he took a small data chip out of his Pak and held it out. "Here. Take it."

Zim accepted the chip. "What's this do?"

"It's got the transmission code to my private quarters," Purple muttered. "If you DARE contact me for ANYTHING except an emergency with the eggs, I will personally make sure that any and all transmissions you make from Earth will be blocked by every single machine in the Irken Empire, from the Control Brains to electric toothbrushes. Understand?"

Zim didn't hear a thing past the first sentence. "WOW! Your private quarters? You mean your ROOM?! My Tallest, never in my wildest thoughts did I imagine that you would bestow such an honor upon me, well-deserved though it is—"

"Zim, _please_ stop," Purple whined, and rubbed his forehead. "Do you _try_ to make my head hurt this much?"

"I'll call you every day, my Tallest, and we can—"

"Only when you've laid the eggs," Purple hastily interrupted.

"Huh?" Zim said. "Oh. Yeah. I can do that."

Purple sighed in relief. "Good. I probably won't be in my room except between 160 and 180 degrees, so don't call at any other times. A Cleaning Drone might see you or something. That'd be bad."

Zim nodded. That was several hours after school got out for the day anyway, so there wouldn't be any scheduling conflicts. That solved one issue, how to contact Purple without jeopardizing the secrecy of the mission. As to his _other_ mission, though... "But what about my reports?"

Purple gave him a puzzled look. "What reports?"

"My mission reports! On how my _glorious_ conquest of Earth is proceeding! Surely, I'll still be able to contact you, so you will be kept up-to-date. But if I'm growing eggs it would certainly become obvious soon. How do I maintain contact with Tallest Red without giving away the secret?"

"Oh. Right," Purple said. "I'm, uh, sure you could just not report for a few weeks and Red wouldn't notice."

Zim stared at him. "What?! But he'll be _dying_ with worry about my mission! He'll have no idea why I'm not contacting him!"

"Really, Zim, it'll be fine," Purple insisted. "Red and I are very busy with... Tallest-y things... He won't notice if you don't report in for a few weeks." He paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, you can probably... er, take a break from your mission while you're growing the eggs. Just to stay on the safe side."

"You're joking!" Zim said, horrified. "I can't take a break from invading! That's ridiculous! Not when Earth is so close to falling before my mighty might! I can handle both missions at the same time, my Tallest, easily."

The Tallest themselves had said in their speech to the Invaders before Operation Impending Doom I that the only way the Irkens could achieve universal conquest would be through a unceasing, obscene barrage of invasion. For an Invader to be successful, he was to have no breaks, no vacations, no slacking: if you get tired, buck up, have a plate of nachos, get back to work! The future of the Irken Empire rests on you.

How could one of the Tallest who said that now tell Zim to take a four-week break?

"Zim, _really_, it doesn't matter," Purple said. "A few weeks won't make a diff—"

"Doesn't matter?!" Zim drew himself to his full height—and on his Pak-legs, that was even taller than the Tallest. "How can you say that! You... you and Tallest Red, more than any other Irkens alive, should know better than that! _You_ should know how damaging it can be to postpone an invasion such as this! I can't even believe that you'd say such a thing!" A thought struck Zim. "You must be joking. It's a joke, isn't it?"

After all, every single Invader's mission was important, not to be delayed. Which meant either Purple had to be kidding, or Zim's mission...

Purple wrapped one hand around Zim's waist and jerked him down so they were eye to eye. Zim winced; he was still sensitive from the surgery. "Listen," Purple snarled. "I didn't want to tell you this, but if I don't you'll probably go do something stupid enough to get you and the eggs _killed_, trying to conquer this pitiful dirt-ball. _You have no mission on Earth_."

Zim looked blankly at Purple. "Yes, I understand," he said. "But you still can't expect me to put my mission on hold!"

Purple stared back. "Did... anything I just said make it into your head?"

"Anything you said about what?"

Purple slowly shook his head, bewildered. "Zim. You're not an Invader. You're not supposed to conquer Earth. When we sent you out here, we thought you'd float in space until you ran out of fuel, snacks, or sanity and _died_ out in the infinite Firmament where no one would ever have to see you again. You're an exile! Do you know what that means?"

"Eh..." Zim knew what an exile was, sure. But it wasn't a word that applied in any way to him. "I don't think I follow, my Tallest."

Purple let go of Zim, shut his eyes, and sighed. "Fine. Let's try again." He opened his eyes again. He looked pretty close to exhausted. No... that was the human word. He looked _starved_. Humans grow tired; Irkens grow hungry. It was same emotion, in the end: a lack of energy, a deadness that makes you want to just collapse and hope the world won't ask any more of your for a while. Earthen exhaustion, Irken starvation... either way, it was a deep, dismal fatigue. "Get off your stupid Pak-legs, Zim," he said wearily.

Zim retracted the legs and sat on the operation table—he was strong enough that he didn't need to lie down now.

"Do you remember when you were banished to Foodcourtia, Zim?" Purple asked.

"Of course. But I quit that to join Operation Impending—"

"You _can't_ quit, Zim!" Purple interrupted. "Do you know what 'banish' means?"

"Obviously!"

"Define it."

"Easy! It's what the Control Brains do to defects, criminals and losers when they figure they're not bad enough to execute." Zim smiled proudly. A connection clicked into place in his mind, and the smile vanished. "Did you say I was banished?"

Purple nodded gravely.

Zim was banished. Banished equals defects, criminals, losers... "There must have been a mistake," Zim said worriedly.

Purple shook his head.

Any other day, Zim would have brushed this all off as an error. Any normal day, he could have easily forgotten this entire conversation. But today...

_See you after the ride, shorty_.

Today had been strange.

The iron-hard shell of Zim's ego had already been cracked many times over the past few hours, without any time for him to repair it. The suggestion that he had been honestly, justly banished—_defect, criminal, loser_—instead of rebounding off, simply chiseled deeper into the shell, widening the crack... "But, at Operation Impeding Doom II!" Zim said desperately. "You told me yourself that I had a mission! _Ha!_ I remember, you said I'd get a special mission to a planet so secret, you couldn't even tell me its name! You and Tallest Red both said that! You didn't call it an exile." He smiled up at Purple widely, uncertainly, pathetically. "Didn't... didn't you say that?"

"Yes, we said that, Zim." Purple's voice didn't have any of the friendliness that Zim thought should be in a comment like that. "We were lying."

_Crack_, another gap in the shell. "Oh. You were... then..." A beam of hope, and Zim's smile became less pathetic and more sly. "Then... how do I know you weren't lying to me about being banished?" That was good. If Purple claimed to have been lying about his mission, then, logically, he could be lying about anything—even lying about lying. Which would make his mission real again.

"Zim, _why_ would we lie to you about _banishment_?" Purple demanded. "Why would we tell you that you were banished if you _weren't_?"

"Why would you tell me I have a mission if I don't?!" Zim shot back. "Ha!"

"Because if we HADN'T," Purple said angrily, "then you would have stayed in the empire and just kept ruining _everything for every other Irken alive!_"

_Crack_. "B-but... why would you want to get rid of me?"

"Because you're the most worthless Invader to ever exist!"

_Shatter_.

xxx

Purple almost immediately regretted letting his temper get the best of him. Sure, Zim was infuriating, but Purple needed him for this plan to work. And now...

Purple had never seen such an expression on Zim's face before—on many Irkens at all, really. His eyes were as wide as they could get, yet were completely blank. Something deep inside them had gone dark, as dark as the bottom of a whirlpool. Purple had to look away before he was sucked inside as well.

Zim hadn't moved in almost a minute. Purple was starting to wonder if he'd just spontaneously died. Did that happen on Earth?

"Uh, Zim?" Purple reached out to poke him. "Are you still ali—"

Before he could touch him, Zim doubled over and burst into deep, heaving sobs. Purple jerked his hand back, startled. "Zim?!"

"S-so what's my _purpose?_" Zim demanded. Purple wondered whether or not that question was actually directed at anyone. "Why do I even n-need to live, huh? Why shouldn't I just crawl off and... and die or something? I'm short and useless a-and exiled and... and short..."

This, Purple thought with alarm, was treading dangerously close to talk of the S-word. The takey-your-lifey word. On the Massive, Purple and Red usually threw Irkens who brought up the subject out the airlock; better than waiting for them to throw themselves out. But this wasn't the Massive, and Purple needed Zim alive.

"Zim, cut that out! C'mon, that stuff's not true! You're not really..." Purple hesitated. "Okay, well, you _are_ short... and we _did_ exile you..."

Zim let out a long, agonized whine.

"But you're not useless," Purple said quickly.

Slowly, Zim lifted his head to look up at Purple. "How can you say that?" he said, almost accusatorially. "I have no mission, no duty, no purpose..." He buried his head again. "I can do nothing for my empire!"

"Sure you can!" Purple said. "Hey, come on, I came here to give you a new mission, didn't I?"

Zim's whimpers quieted a bit. "Y-yeah?"

"So you can still serve your empire! What I said earlier is true. You can be a hero."

A long moment, and Zim straightened up. Now he looked angry. Good—anger was good; anger was a normal emotion, a living emotion, under many circumstances a praiseworthy emotion among Irkens. It had lit a dim, smoldering glow in Zim's eyes. "How do I know you aren't lying about this _mission_, too? Huh?" he hissed. "Zim demands an explanation!"

Purple was almost glad to see Zim being an obnoxious little roach again. "Zim, you're going to be _making smeets_. You can't trick someone into thinking they're growing eggs when they aren't. I mean... it's kinda impossible."

"Oh. Yeah. Heh." Zim still looked distrustful, but nevertheless leaped off the operation table and saluted up at Purple. "Then, even if I cannot serve my empire as..." his voice almost caught, but he went on, "as an Invader... I will still do my best to serve it in any way possible!"

Purple wondered why Zim couldn't have been this willing to serve his banishment on Foodcourtia. It would have made everything easier. "Even if you're still exiled?"

"Duh!" Zim said. Purple wondered what in the Firmament the sound was supposed to mean. "The Irken Empire comes before the Irken, my Tallest. It's most important that I do my duty!"

Tallest Miyuki had said that first: _the Empire before the Irken, always_. Purple was surprised Zim still remembered the quote, much less understood it. Perhaps Zim wasn't as egocentric as Purple had thought...

"Besides!" Zim said. "When you see what a good job I do with _this_ mission, you'll have no choice but to let me be an Invader again!" He laughed in evil delight.

And then again, perhaps he was. "Was the laugh really necessary, Zim?"

"But of course."

True, Zim sounded better now, and he looked better as well. But something in the edges of his eyes still looked dark—he was out of the whirlpool but still in the water. Purple would let him cling to the idea that he could become an Invader again; he probably needed that hope, right now.

But, most of all, he needed a quick way to boost his mood. A way like...

"I think I'm quite healed now," Zim said. "Where do we dance?" He grinned at Purple expectantly.

Dancing. Oy. Right. "Do you have a couch or anything?" Purple asked.

"Only the one on the ground floor. And there's always the risk of a fff_ilthy_ hh_yuu_man sneaking in," Zim said darkly. He dragged out the words as if they were nasty curses he could barely bring himself to say. "Especially the _Dib_." Zim raised his voice and glanced upward. "Though that wouldn't be a problem if my base had better security!"

"Well excuuuse me," the computer said. "I'm doing the best I can, Princess."

"Hey! Zim is no princess!"

"Sure you are. You've got a vajayjay now."

"I have no... a _what_?"

"Va-jaaay-jaa—"

"NO MORE INTAR-WEBS FOR YOU!"

"What?! You can't take away my Internet! It's like my soul!"

"Irken computers have no soul!"

"Zim!" Purple snarled. "You can argue about your vajiggies and Enterwhats _later_. We still need a place to dance." How hard could this be? Zim had to have more than one couch in his base. Or a pillow collection. Or _something_. With their height difference, there was no way they could do it standing up, and Purple refused to do it on the floor. He was the _Tallest_, for Irk's sake.

"Didn't you come here in a Spittle Runner, my Tallest?"

"Yeah. And?"

"Don't Runners have a padded bench in the back?" Zim asked. "A really big comfy one?"

No. There was no way Purple was letting Zim on his personal Runner. Not in any of the heavens, hells, or voids. "We're using your couch," he said firmly.

"Fine," Zim muttered, then added, almost casually enough to sound off-handed, "That means Gir will probably be around..."

_That_ defective thing? Oh, no. That changed everything. For all Purple knew the defective SIR Unit might record the whole dance and then broadcast it to the entire empire. "We're using my Runner," he said reluctantly.

"Yes!" Zim pumped a fist in the air victoriously and ran out of the med bay, heading towards the lift.

"Woohoo!" the computer cheered. "Car sex!"

Purple looked at the computer's speaker, baffled. Karseks? "Is there something wrong with your computer?"

"No," Zim said, "it's just completely insane."

Coming from Zim, that was saying something.

xxx

At that precise moment, Purple couldn't exactly recall how he had ended up dancing with the most reviled Irken in the empire, and wasn't in any condition to try.

Not that he was complaining exactly, oh no. Once you get going it doesn't matter whom you're dancing with, as long as you _keep_ going. That is the only purpose of a dance; pure physical pleasure, enough pleasure to carry you through any despair, any trial, any shame. Like the shame of dancing with Exile Zim.

It was awkward, of course. The size difference, the fact that they didn't really like each other... but after a while, Purple didn't care anymore.

For both of them—fingers running over skin, antennae rubbing against antennae, body pressed against body—the dance was the only thing they cared about.

And after all, Purple thought (when he was capable of thought), it didn't really mean anything.

They were simply doing their duty for the Irken Empire.

xxx

The next time Zim was capable of intelligent thought, he was sitting on the floor of the hangar. He blinked slowly. "Whuhappen?" He'd been dancing, he knew that. With the Tallest. But after a point he couldn't remember anything. It must've been good, then.

"Almighty Tallest Purple told you that you absolutely weren't falling asleep in his ship," the computer said. "But you did anyway, so he tossed you out."

He'd fallen asleep? Odd. Zim stood up, stretched to get the kinks out of his back. Purple's Spittle Runner was still in the hangar, so he hadn't left. Zim couldn't see inside the Runner (he wasn't tall enough; oh, well), but he assumed Purple was still there.

If Zim was tired enough that his body had fallen asleep, then he sorely needed to recharge his Pak, as soon as possible. After all, he'd been interrupted while recharging it earlier by Tallest Purple's arrival. He headed to the lift to take him down to the recharge chamber, humming to himself.

"Uh, Master?" the computer asked.

"Yes, computer?"

"You realize you're naked, right?"

Zim glanced down at himself. "Oh. I guess so," he said cheerfully. Actually, everything he'd done so far had been cheerful. He was just in a good mood, pure and simple. Chemical imbalance, he thought idly; when he'd been on Vort, he'd learned that dancing set off some kind of chemical imbalance in Irkens' brains. Well, whatever it was, it was certainly nice.

As Zim rode the lift down, the computer said, "By the way, you remember the mutant cow-human fusions you've been working on?"

"Yes?" He'd worked on those cow-humans a couple of months now.

"I think they're getting hungry." A pause. "Actually, they're in imminent danger of death by starvation."

Zim couldn't bring himself to be bothered by this at all. "Transfer them all to the same holding chamber and let them eat each other. Humans eat cows, right?"

"Er... if you say so..." the computer said. "What if that doesn't work?"

"I don't care." It was true; he'd been planning on using a cow-human army to take over Earth if one of his other plans didn't work out. But now... all his plans were irrelevant. He was feeling so good that it barely stung to remember that he no longer had a mission. "Let Gir take care of it."

"Sure," the computer said. "I guess..."

The lift stopped, and Zim stepped out and headed to the recharge chamber. "Good job, computer. I'll see you in the morning."

"What?! Uh, thanks?" The computer sounded thoroughly baffled. "Master, are you feeling all right?"

"Of course I am! I've never been better!"

"Huh," the computer said. "You should get laid more often."

Should do what? Someone at school had told Zim the same thing, which meant it was a human phrase. "Shut up," Zim said happily. "You say stupidness."

"Thank you, Master," the computer said, sounding relieved.

"Whatever."

Zim shut the recharge chamber's door, plugged his Pak into the chair, turned on the computer, and spent the rest of the night getting caught up with the news he'd missed that day.

xxx

Zim had taken many risks over the years, done countless foolish things. Thousands of beings from dozens of species (but mostly from his own) would have been thrilled to see Zim dead. Luckily, every time he had faced danger, he just barely slid out of harm's way, yet he did it with enough finesse and bravado that it seemed as though he did it every day—which, in the end, was fairly close to the truth.

However, that night, Zim had created a new threat to his life, perhaps the most dangerous one he'd ever faced—a threat that could very likely kill him.

Silently, passively, the killer began growing inside him.

xxxxx


	4. Paper Planes

In case I haven't warned you guys and/or you haven't figured it out yet, I've got a whole freaking Irken culture worked out. This start of this chapter is just part of it. A rather... interesting part, heh. Thank you so so much for all your reviews/faves/alerts so far, and please, keep them coming. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

By the way, I'm gonna try for a weekly update schedule (unless that just starts to overwhelm me). I've already working on chapter 8, if that tells you anything.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Paper Planes

xxx

From a research article published by the Vortian Scola Institute eight years ago, jointly written by Lasa Gna and Sevince Vensvin, also known as Vortian prisoners # 452 and # 777: _**The Link Between Irken Physiology and Taboo: or, what they're really hiding on Abandonia**_

_**Section 5: on Irken copulation**__. It's the question we, as Vortians, have been asking since we first made contact with Irk; why the obsession with copulation? (Or, as Irkens will invariably call it, "dancing.")_

_On the whole, the Irkens do not possess the same characteristics as other copulation-crazed species that we've encountered. They do not force intimacy onto unwilling parties; they do not—in fact, cannot—masturbate; they do not hold an individual in higher or lower esteem based on how many partners one has had or how often one copulates; they do not create, view, or take any pleasure in pornography; and they do not look down upon other species merely for not attaching the same importance to copulation as they do._

_Even so, Irkens continue to "dance" although they no longer have reproductive capabilities, have no qualms about copulating with near strangers, cannot comprehend why any Irken would NOT want to dance (unless the proposed partner is particularly unattractive), and seem to think that frequent dancing is as necessary to a healthy lifestyle as eating. In fact, if they discover that an Irken has not danced in a few dozen days or more, they will express concern for the individual (inasmuch as an Irken ever expresses concern over anyone other than himself), and a casual acquaintance might volunteer to "help," as if this is a problem that needs fixing._

_Naturally, we've never been able to make sense of this. However, it may be that the answer is not difficult to find, but that the question we've been asking is incorrect. All along, we have asked, "What in Irken culture brought about this phenomenon?" However, the answer does not lie in their culture; it's in their physiology._

_As explained in Section 2, Irkens do not produce several chemicals found in what we define as a "healthy" brain, most notably serotonin, norepinephrine, and especially dopamine. Their mental health thus depends on getting these chemicals elsewhere, or otherwise prompting the brain to produce more of these chemicals than normal._

_One of the best-known, easiest methods the Irkens use to raise these chemicals' levels is copulation; upon reaching orgasm, Irkens get a whole flood of feel-good chemicals, including dopamine. Vortians also get a post-copulation high, as we all know (and if you don't yet, why are you reading this?); however, the Irkens are the only known species to release dopamine after intercourse. Also, we, like most other species, don't need that chemical flood. Irkens do._

_The personality changes seen in Irkens who have recently copulated are astounding; they oftentimes become calmer, nicer, more sociable, more optimistic, and all together pleasant—even by Vortian standards. For a while, until their brains return to their normal mix of chemicals, they're almost completely different beings._

_With that previous paragraph in mind, the writers of this paper would like to say that if the Irkens want to dance four times a day, let them go at it. It just makes things easier for everyone_.

xxx

"Prepare yourself! The astounding Zim has arrived!" Zim cackled gleefully as the lift carried him into the kitchen toilet.

"Are you actually talking to anybody?" the computer asked.

"Eh? Not really," Zim said. He ran into the living room and stood on the sofa to yell at the ceiling. "Hey, computer! How long until school starts?"

"Uh, about two hours?"

"A mere eighteen degrees! Perfect," Zim said. "Excellent work, computer. You can take the day off."

"Um, not really. The base might blow up or something if I did," the computer said. "You know, I was serious. You really _should_ get laid more often."

"Don't be silly! I feel fine," Zim said.

"That's my point."

Zim sat on top of the back of the couch. Eighteen degrees, two hours, what could he do in that time? Well, just about anything, really. What _couldn't_ Zim do?

"Hey, computer. How are the cow-humans doing?"

"I dunno. Ask Gir."

That's right, Zim had told the computer that if anything went wrong, the cow-humans were Gir's responsibility. "Gir? What condition are the cow-humans in?" Zim shouted. No response. "Hey! GI—"

Something fell over in the kitchen, with a series of clangs and squawks. Zim jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen, to see Gir wrestling on top of the overturned refrigerator with a struggling rooster. "Oh. There you are."

"All I wants is a baby chicky!" Gir cried. "Why won't you give me a chicky?!" The rooster crowed in distress.

"Gir!"

Gir jumped to his feet, saluting and optics flashing red. "Yes, my master!" The rooster took the opportunity to flee, half flying and half running its way into the living room and out of sight.

It would take half a day to hunt the bird down and get it out of Zim's base. However, Zim found himself more amused by the display than anything else—an uncommon occurrence. "Gir, what is the condition of the cow-humans?"

"Aw, they's great!" Gir said enthusiastically. "They was real tasty, Master!"

"Er... good work, Gir." Zim chose not to think too deeply about what Gir had said. He decided the cow-humans weren't all that important after all. "Now, put the refrigyraty-thingy back upright."

"Okie-dokie!" Gir kicked a hole in the back of the fridge and jumped inside. Zim could hear a giggle from the inside. "Hi there, Mrs. Rooster."

So much for that order. "Eh, keep up the fine work," Zim said, and then giggled. He blinked. That was... unusual. Very unusual. But... Gir was just _funny_. Zim had no reason not to laugh. In fact, seeing as he still had about 17° until school, why not spend them doing something amusing?

Zim returned to the couch in the living room and said, "Computer, find an Earthen 'documentary' on the human called Napoleon." Napoleon was always good for a few laughs. What kind of idiot tries to conquer his _own_ planet?

"Searching... searching... doodedoo..." the computer droned. "Documentary found: _The Waterloo Hullabaloo_."

"Excellent! Play it!" Zim said.

"Yeah, yeah..."

Zim had been watching only a few minutes, chuckling at every few quotes from Napoleon—"In politics, stupidity is not a handicap"—when Gir, covered in eggs, wandered in and took a seat beside him. "Whatchu watchin'?"

"A comedy."

"Mmhmm." Gir nodded, egg whites and shells dripping off his head. Zim would have to tell the computer to clean it later.

After a moment, Gir asked, "What was you doin' wrong?"

"Eh?" Zim gave Gir a baffled look. "Zim does nothing wrong!"

"Oh," Gir said. "'Cause last night the Tallest kept saying 'Zim! You're doing it wrong!'"

"You lie! You must have misheard!" He never remembered Tallest Purple saying that.

"Actually, yeah, I said that." Purple was standing in the kitchen entryway, arms crossed.

"No you didn't!" Zim leaped to his feet, fists planted on his sides. "You would have had no reason to! Clearly you cannot properly remember what we did because you're still dazed by your astoundingly passionate night with Zim!"

Purple gave Zim an unreadable look. "Actually... no. I'm not. Not at all."

"Admit it!" Zim shouted. "You have never had a lover like ZIM!"

Purple stared at Zim. Then he burst out laughing. Nearly doubled over, he had to grab the entryway with one hand to keep himself upright. "Z-Zim—that's—_stupidest_..." He couldn't continue, he was laughing so hard.

"My Tallest?" Zim said, baffled. And then, inexplicably, he started laughing himself. Well, why not?! Besides, there wasn't a reason in the world not to laugh.

"Never mind!" the computer said loudly over the laughter. "I take it back! Master, you should _never_ get laid again."

That only made them laugh harder.

xxx

It took a few minutes to recover themselves. When Zim and Purple finally did quiet down, they heard a new quote from the Napoleon documentary—"Throw off your worries when you throw off your clothes at night"—and were set off all over again.

At last, when they were both fairly calm again Purple told Zim that he'd be leaving soon, and that he had a few instructions before then.

"You have a standard lifeform protection chamber in your base, don't you?" Purple asked.

"Of course," Zim said. The SLP chamber was the vast room with dozens of tubes where the Invaders could store captured alien species. "Every Invader's base has one of those!"

"But you're not a... Never mind." Purple sighed. "Okay, you've got one. Good. When you have the eggs, put them in those tubes before you contact me, okay? That'll keep them stable until I can show up. After that I can do... something with them." Purple looked thoughtful. "I could try to take the eggs back to the birthing facilities and sneak them in with the rest, but that might mess the system up."

"The birthing facilities are messed up really easily," Zim said earnestly. On the day he was born he'd made a _really, really small_ mistake, and the entire facility had crashed. Surely that was due to faulty systems at the facility.

Purple gave Zim a cold look. "Yes, I'm aware of that," he said. "Just remember what I told you to do, okay?"

"Do about what?"

"About the... Slark, just forget it. Computer?"

"Yes, my Almighty Tallest?" the computer said smartly. Suck-up, Zim thought.

"_You_ make sure that when Zim has my eggs, they're stored in the SLP chamber. Got it?"

"Yes sir, my Tallest."

"Good." Purple turned back to Zim. "I need enough snacks to last me three days, for the trip back to the Massive. Go get some."

"Yes sir, my Tallest!" Zim saluted, stretching himself out to his full height. "Your wish is my command!" He wasn't about to let his computer become more popular with the Tallest than he himself was.

As he dashed past Purple, he had a sudden thought, and stopped. "Three days?!" he said. "But that can't possibly last the trip! It's months to the Massive!" Given that it took a twentieth of an Irken year for Zim to reach Earth from Conventia, and the Massive was about two thirds of the way from Earth to Conventia right now...

"What's a month?" Purple asked, baffled.

"Eh, sorry. Earth term," Zim said. "Didn't you hear about it from my reports?"

"No."

"Oh." What, hadn't the Tallest been listening to his reports? "Still!" Zim said. "How can you go with only three days' snacks? It will take you much longer than that to get to the Massive."

"Not really," Purple said smugly. "Maybe in a trashy little Voot Cruiser, but not in _my_ ship."

Zim's eyes widened. A Spittle Runner was really that fast? "It can go that far in three days?" he asked, awed.

"Or less," Purple said. "And you should see the kind of handling it has. You hardly even notice you're piloting it." He paused. "Not that I'm ever letting you find out first hand."

"Fine," Zim grumbled. He'd never gotten to pilot a Spittle Runner before. But, he understood—it wasn't every Irken that could afford a ship of their own. Those that could, had reason to be protective of them. It was actually one of the few things Zim understood humans about: lay so much as a finger on their vehicle, and there's hell to pay.

"Now how about those snacks?" Purple said.

"Yes, my Tallest!" Zim said, and stepped around the busted fridge to reach the cabinets with the snacks, Purple following to look at the selection.

"Actually," Purple said, "After last night, I probably won't be hungry again for a while..."

That was true. No need for snacks so soon after dancing. "So you won't need as much, right?" Zim said eagerly. More snacks for Zim!

Purple looked over Zim's supplies again, and his eyes widened. "You have Duper Dip? I thought there was a shortage!"

"Oh, well, I guess I was lucky," Zim said, shrugging. Actually, he was probably partially responsible for the shortage. That was the last time he left Gir with the responsibility to order more chips and dip. The robot had forgotten the chips and overloaded on dip. In fact, Zim had gotten so much that he'd decided to use half the dip to fill the Dib-stink's room, then set up a camera in his hallway to see how Dib reacted... That had been fun.

Purple's eyes glimmered greedily. "Actually, I might need enough food for three days after all," he said, reaching past Zim for a jar of dip. "Maybe four."

Zim sighed. He couldn't really say no to his leader, could he? "Yes, my Tallest."

xxx

7:06 AM, approximately fifteen minutes until class started. Dib was leaning against his locker, arms crossed, trying to keep his eyes open as he scanned the students who walked past him. Junior high started way too early. He missed elementary school, with its 7:40 start time. Not that he'd appreciated the extra twenty minutes back then, he'd always gotten up before six... oh, for the good old pre-puberty days, when he woke up early enough to see Saturday morning cartoons.

No. _Focus_. Dib pushed his glasses on his forehead to rub his eyes, and then settled them back into position. His first period class was just down the hall from his locker, so he waited every morning for Zim to go to his own locker, That way, Dib could find out before school started if the alien was up to anything that day. It was usually easy to tell; when Zim was planning something, he came to school much happier than normal. He almost always passed by between 7:14 and 7:18 AM, so Dib still had a few more minutes to wait.

In fact, he didn't really need to be _watching_, did he? After all, Dib wasn't the only student who waited for Zim to arrive. That weird Keef kid with the orange puff of hair (Dib had dubbed it an afrohawk last year) also hung out in this hallway, waiting to greet Zim, his bestest friend in the world. Dib pitied Keef. Still, he had a shrill voice... which meant Dib could close his eyes for... a few minutes...

"Hey there BESTEST BUDDY ZIM!"

Dib jerked his head back up and blinked stupidly down the hall. Had Zim really gotten here so soon? Or maybe Dib had dozed off for a moment? He checked his watch; no, it was only 7:08. He looked at Keef, who was waving with both arms down the hallway, and looked the other way, to find Zim. There was no less than a distance of twenty feet between Keef and Zim. That kid was _obsessive_.

"Man, is it _good_ to see you!" Keef shouted at the top of his lungs. "You're six minutes early!" Okay, that was just creepy. What kind of weirdo figured out the exact time someone showed up at school? ... Well, Dib had an excuse, at least.

Zim glanced down the hall and clearly saw Keef. And now would start the morning ritual: Zim pretends not to notice his crazy "friend," until Keef runs over to get Zim's attention. At that point, Zim yells at Keef to go away, upsetting Keef greatly, until Zim resorts to doing something funny with his Pak so that Keef shuts up and walks away on his own. Dib was pretty sure that Zim had put some sort of alien mind-control device in Keef, but decided for once he'd let Zim get away with his evil scheme: he preferred Keef silent.

And now, Dib thought, time for the shouting to start.

To his utter shock, Zim broke into a wide grin. "Hello KEEF!" he yelled back, waving at least as enthusiastically as Keef was. "Boy oh boy am I glad to see you!"

Keef's eyes almost bugged out. "Really?!"

"Sure!" Zim shouted, smiling as if he really were thrilled to see Keef.

Dib looked back and forth between the two of them. Zim was practically _skipping_ up to Keef, humming something Dib didn't recognize. Keef, meanwhile, had a dazed look of speechless joy on his face—this was probably the first time Zim had been nice to Keef in over two years, since he'd decided to be Keef's friend for all of four days.

What was going on here?! Zim couldn't possibly be happy to see Keef. At least, not _this_ happy. He had to be up to something big. Just based on his mood, Dib wouldn't have been surprised at all if the roof of the school was torn away and five billion alien soldiers jumped inside... Okay, so maybe five billion wouldn't fit. But _something_ had to be making Zim this cheerful.

"So, Keef!" Zim said. "How was your day yesterday?"

Keef looked about ready to pass out with euphoria from the sudden wave of positive attention from his idol. "It was really really good! How was yours, bestest friend ever?"

A triumphant gleam shone from behind Zim's contacts. He pointed one finger in the air as he declared, "It was the most amazing day in the HISTORY of your PLANET!" Dib was so stunned, he didn't even think to try to drag people's attention to Zim's comment.

Keef gasped. "You mean that?!"

"I do!"

"I'm so happy for you, Zim!"

"I'm sure you are," Zim said dismissively. "Now! _To Earth history!_" He grabbed Keef's arm and started dragging him along, despite the fact that he was nearly a foot taller than Zim. Keef had to stoop over to stumble after Zim.

"But I've got math, Zim!" Keef said. "I don't go to world history until third period!"

"Shut your speech-hole!" Zim commanded. "We are going to Earth history. Onward to _victory!_" He laughed maniacally as he hauled Keef along.

"Er..." Keef recovered himself quickly, and beamed at Zim. "If you say so, Zim, bestest friend!"

"I sure do," Zim said, and then pointedly added, "_buddy_." Dib could have sworn that Keef nearly swooned.

As they walked away, Dib quietly opened his locker, pulled out a small camcorder, and followed Zim and Keef. He could miss first period to find out what Zim was up to—

Someone grabbed the back of Dib's coat and shirt, jerking him back. He gasped and swung an arm behind him, trying to get at his assailant, but they let go and Dib lost balance and fell over. A few kids chuckled, then moved on.

Dib got to his feet, fists raised. "Hey, what do you think you're—" He saw his "assailant," and quickly dropped his fists. "Er, Mr. Nub!"

"I should ask you the same question," Mr. Nub said, in a nasal twang. "Mr. Dib Gomolka, what _do_ you think you're doing, trying to sneak past my class less than a minute before the bell?" Before Dib could answer, the bell rang. "And you're now late, Mr. Gomolka. Three more tardies and I'll have to count it as an unexcused absence. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Uh..." Dib glanced down the hallway; Zim and Keef, of course, were long gone. He sighed. "No, sir. I just got back from the restroom late."

Mr. Nub let out a long breath through his pudgy nose; it sounded slightly like a very distant train whistle. "You do realize that you've skipped my class four times, don't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Nub," Dib said dully.

"And that if you have one more unexcused absence, you'll fail Intro Tech and have to retake it over summer break?"

"Yes, Mr. Nub."

"It would be such a shame if I had to fail you," Mr. Nub said with a false pitying look. "You're the best student in class."

"Yes, Mr. Nub." Not only that, but Dib was quite a bit better with computers than the Introduction to Technology teacher himself. He still wondered why on Earth he had to take this course. He was Professor Membrane's son, for crying out loud; he'd learned all this stuff before the school even let kids use calculators. And it was only mid-November; he still had to suffer through another six months of this.

Mr. Nub sighed. "Get in," he said, standing aside and letting Dib into the classroom. Dib quickly claimed his seat, at the computer as far from Mr. Nub's desk as possible.

"Now, children," Mr. Nub said, squeezing his tubby body into his swivel chair, "with Mr. Gomolka's interruption out of the day, let's get started. Today, we're going to—er, yes, Mr. Gomolka?"

Dib had been waving his hand for attention. He lowered it and said, "Can I go to the restroom?" There was no way he was letting Zim go without finding out what he was up to—it wasn't too late to run down to the world history class, peek in the window, and at least see if he was doing anything weird in there...

"Didn't you say you were late to class because you were just coming back from the restroom, Mr. Gomolka?" Mr. Nub said, squinting his beady eyes.

"Oh... yeah, I guess so," Dib muttered. "What if I say it's an emergency?"

"That's what the plastic buckets under your computer are for," Mr. Nub said tiredly. Half the class peeked under their desks at the buckets, eyes widening in disgusted realization. So _that's_ why those buckets smelled so funny.

From the opposite corner of the room Dib heard a relieved sigh and the sound of a zipper. To cover up whatever sounds came next, Dib said loudly, "I think I can hold it."

"Good lad," Mr. Nub said. "As I was _saying_, today, we're going to learn how to send each other electronic mail!" The class let out a collective groan; only the slowest students couldn't send emails. "Oh, I know, children, but what's school without a bit of intellectual challenge? Now, everybody turn on your computers—do you all remember where the power switches are? No need to be shy..."

Dib turned on the computer, sighing. What a waste of time. And to think, Zim was in another class somewhere, doing _things_, without Dib there to keep him in check. How he'd rather be out of this room, hunting Zim down...

There was a series of horrified gasps from the corner that the zipper sound had come from, and Dib quickly amended his previous thought: he'd rather be _anywhere_ but first period Intro Tech.

xxx

Somehow, whenever Dib and Zim ended up in the same class, they had the precise same seating arrangement.

There was just no other way to situate them. The teachers wanted them as far apart as possible, _they_ wanted to be as far apart as possible, but neither would allow the other to sit behind him, out of his line of sight. Their teachers would never let such a pair of troublemakers sit in the back of the class together, so they sat in the front row. And, as Dib had discovered several months ago, when Zim was in a large group he'd invariably try to situate himself so that rest of the crowd was on his left side. And thus, in every class they shared—front row, far left desk, Dib; front row, far right desk, Zim.

The first class of the day they shared was homeroom, twenty minutes long, between second and third period. Nowhere near enough time for Dib to find out anything useful about what Zim was planning. But he'd certainly try.

While the announcements droned about school pride for the Joonier Hi football game after school (who cared about school football teams before high school, anyway?) Dib pulled out a piece of notebook paper, scrawled "_What are you up to?!_" on it, folded it into a paper airplane, and let fly. After uncounted detentions for arguments in class, he and Zim had reluctantly agreed to this silent form of communication. Now each just hoped that the other would get caught passing notes and have detention alone. It wasn't likely today, though; Ms. Airy was engrossed in a book and every once in a while heaving wistful sighs. Dib was pretty sure the cover said _Mein Kampf. _

Zim was staring blankly at a worksheet when the paper plane hit his head. Dib expected he'd at least earned himself a scowl, but Zim just glanced to the side, saw the paper plane on the floor, and picked it up. He read it, answered it, and sent it back without displaying any annoyance at all.

The response was only one word. "_NOTHING._" (Zim had an annoying tendency to either write in all caps, or forget to capitalize all together.)

Dib frowned, and scrawled back, "_I don't buy that for 1 second alien! What are you doig this time??"_

Plane re-folded, sent over; reply sent back. Zim hadn't written anything new, just traced over and underlined his previous answer: "_**NOTHING**_."

"_Yea rite! Someting's making you so hapy!! What??_"

Zim read the message, smirked, and pulled out a new pen from the pod on his back. When Dib got his note back, all his spelling mistakes had been scrawled out and written over in red. Okay, so Dib had a tendency to take short cuts on spelling when he was writing fast, but this was just obnoxious. "_WATCH YOUR SPELLING. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED THAT I KNOW YOUR LANGUAGE BETTER THAN YOU DO. XP_"

And when Dib was starting to think that Zim had finally reached the upper threshold of his abilities to infuriate, he discovered _emoticons_. "_Watch your capitalizaton! & answer the qestion I askd!!_" Dib threw the plane so hard that it just flopped down next to his chair. Zim bit his lip to keep from laughing. His face heating up, Dib picked up the paper again, smoothed out the tip, and threw it again.

When Dib got the letter back, Zim had once again marked up his mistakes, but thankfully his actual response was more enlightening. "_it is none of your business why i am in a good mood today, dib. besides, you are far too young to possibly know about such mature forms of pleasure-acquisition. perhaps you will understand when you reach your adult stage._"

Dib was not naive. Unless this was some freakishly incomprehensible alien concept, then he knew exactly what Zim was talking about. His eyes widened. _Zim_ got _laid?_ He didn't even want to THINK about his arch-nemesis doing that. With _who?_ There were no other aliens of his species on the planet, as far as Dib knew. Zim didn't even have any allies, except...

An image of Gir sprawled out on a satin bed with a lewd look flashed through Dib's mind. He shuddered and crumpled up the notebook paper. That was an idea he could have gone his entire life without thinking.

A moment later, a new paper plane landed on Dib's desk. He gave Zim a confused look, and then unfolded it. It only had a question: "_what earth year did your christopher columbus find the america-continent?_"

Baffled, Dib read the question twice, turned the paper over to look for a hidden message, and then remembered the worksheet he'd seen Zim doing earlier and scowled. "_Do your own damn histrory homework,_" he wrote, "_alien pervert_."

When Zim read Dib's response, he looked momentarily surprised, and then snickered. He didn't seem angry at all.

Dib watched Zim, worried, for the rest of homeroom. He was _too_ happy. He had to be planning something particularly wicked.

Dib intended to find out what by the end of the day.

xxxxx


	5. Rank Tower

I realized that up until now I haven't remembered to thank my two betas: Ricchan and BarkingPup. Apologies for not mentioning you until now. Ricchan is pretty much my muse incarnate and you can thank her for this fic's coming into existence, and BarkingPup makes sure everything here obeys the laws of English and logic, the two hardest legal systems to appease.

Now, an author note, to clear up something for people who might be familiar with the Quakers only as parrots: the Quakers, or the Religious Society of Friends, are a mostly-Christian religious denomination who, among other things, believe very strongly in pacifism. One of the stereotypes about them is that they think frivolous activities like dancing are sins; I don't know personally whether or not that's true, but that's what some people think about them.

Long explanation for what will be a fairly short joke. Anyway, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy chapter 5, and please do review and let me know what you think.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Rank Tower

xxx

From a report published by the Vortian Ludus Institute, 1752 eras and six years ago, by the deceased Yah Hoo: _**The New Shape of Anatomy Among Irkens**_.

_It has been a couple of millennia since our Irken allies permanently made the change to artificial propagation of their species, even going so far as to remove all genitalia from their bodies. Many papers have already been written, both by Irkens and Vortians, on whether or not this was a wise move. I do not intend to bring back these heated arguments, but simply, scientifically and without bias, bring up a point on which the Irkens' decision may have been advantageous to them. And if you disagree with my point, then a shit-brain like you has no right to debate on a subject like this anyway_.

_First, a note on Irken skeletons. From the outside they appear to have a normal internal skeleton, as we do. However, upon further examination, we will find that they in fact have what may be classified as an "internal exoskeleton": like any insectoid species, the Irkens have an exoskeleton, but are unique in that they have a skin cover over their skeleton. Their exoskeleton serves as a full-body shield of sorts for their internal organs. Any foreign articles under their skin (such as fat, liquid, or who knows what else) cannot damage or crush their organs._

_However, this also leads to one advantage of artificial propagation: because eggs grew inside the exoskeleton and the exoskeleton is only slightly flexible, it could not stretch much to accommodate the growing eggs. While this wasn't a problem for most Irken females (or "layers"), it could often times be quite dangerous for shorter ones._

_The growing eggs could literally crush the organs of the layer, and occasionally killed her. This danger existed primarily for very young Irkens who hadn't reached their adult heights yet; Irkens with a height quotient over 30 units almost never encountered this problem, and as the shortest Irkens are at least 50 units at full height, this is fine_.

_On the very rare occasion that an Irken layer 10 units or shorter might be growing eggs—and I do not know whether this was because of the height, or the undeveloped age—she would, 99 percent of the time, die long before laying any eggs_.

_If nothing else, the Irkens' smeet facilities prevent these deaths._

xxx

Today's fine selection of cafeteria food, provided by the loving Joonier Hi Skool chefs: apples that were starting to turn brown, milk with more preservatives than a Twinkie, Poop chocolate bars, and, for the main course, pasta with mystery meat sauce. This was why Dib brought his lunch from home instead. He was done with his soda and chicken sandwich by the time Zim made it through the horrible lunch line.

Not that Zim ate the cafeteria meals, either. Sometimes he pulled out small tools to examine the food; sometimes he ignored it completely and observed the other students, taking notes; sometimes he took little machines or weapons out of the pod on his back and worked on them; sometimes he fought with Dib.

Dib planned on going the "fight" route today. While Zim looked for a seat, Dib stood up, threw his trash away, and followed him.

As soon as Zim sat down, Dib claimed the seat across from him. "Explain yourself," he said bluntly. "I know you're up to something. You can't _not_ be planning something. So what is it this time? Cancerous meatballs? Reanimated mummies? Hypnotic boy band music?"

Zim rolled his eyes. "I've already told you, Dib-stink. I'm not doing anything. Why would I be sitting here and putting up with you if I had another ingenious scheme to execute?"

"What if that was _part_ of your plan?" Dib demanded.

"It wouldn't be!" Zim said. Suddenly, he grinned. "That'd be a really weird plan," he mused to himself, chuckling.

"See?!" Dib said. "You keep smiling and stuff!"

"And? You object to my _stuff_?!"

"I object to your evil, alien!"

"Ha! I am up to no evil today!" Zim glanced at the rest of the cafeteria. "And I'm still not an alien!"

"You're always up to evil," Dib said. "What about your mission, huh?"

Up to that point, Zim had been half-smiling, clearly entertained by Dib and the conversation. Now the smirk vanished, the bright glow of amusement behind his contacts died. Zim's eyes went dark and the pupils of his contacts turned down, not meeting Dib's eyes. "Oh. Yeah. You don't have to worry about that," he said shortly. "I no longer have... eh... to do such an inferior mission! Yes!" Zim looked up again and grinned broadly; the light was back in his eyes. "I have a new, far more important mission now! So you don't need to fear for the destruction of your worthless dirt-ball anymore. At least, not from the Irkens," Zim said, waving a claw dismissively at reference to the "dirt-ball."

Dib frowned. Zim was pretty bad at lying about big things, and this didn't feel like a lie. But after two years of unceasing efforts to take over the world, he couldn't be telling the truth. "Prove it," Dib said.

"Gladly!" Zim said haughtily. "Name your terms!"

"Tell me the coordinates of your race's planet."

"Which planet?" Zim said, then caught himself. "Never! I said I'm not going to invade your planet, not that I'm letting you invade _mine_!"

"Fine, whatever," Dib said. If Zim was telling the truth, he could find out for sure later. "So, if you're really not going to take over the Earth, then why are you still here? I thought you hated this planet."

"I do," Zim said. "But, for the sake of my super secret special mission, I need to be somewhere no respectable Irken would ever be without a very good reason. That makes your worthless fleck of a planet perfect."

"Gee, thanks," Dib said testily.

Zim wasn't going to give anything else away, and Dib figured that for now he had a decent explanation for Zim's unusual cheer—a new mission _would_ excite him. Dib stood up. "You may have won this for now, Zim, but I _will_ find out what you're really up to. You can't outsmart me!"

"Mhmm. Sure," Zim said casually. "That's why Mr. Mudd thinks you should ask the amazing Zim for tutoring of maths, right?" He grinned evilly.

Dib glared at him. "Shut up." It wasn't Dib's fault he didn't have a giant alien calculator fused to his spinal cord. Besides, he'd be able to pass easily if he didn't spend all class watching Zim. And stalking him instead of doing homework.

Speaking of which, he should be doing his math homework now. It was due in two periods. He'd even had an extra day to do it; they hadn't had math yesterday, since they'd gone to the theme park...

As he walked back towards where he'd left his backpack, Zim said, "Hey, stink-pig."

Dib turned around. "What is it now, alien?"

Zim was holding out a piece of paper. "Zim is feeling benevolent today," he said, with a smile that Dib didn't trust at all. "In exchange for math answers, I ask only for Earth history facts. Do we have an agreement?"

Dib looked suspiciously at the notebook paper. Was Zim up to something, or was he really just too lazy to look up a few answers to a history worksheet? Finally, Dib snatched the notebook paper and snapped, "Just this once." He couldn't afford to fail another assignment. Dib sat down again, pulled out the spiral notebook he usually used to take notes on Zim's behavior, and started copying answers as fast as possible. He could transfer them to proper notebook paper later.

Looking triumphant, Zim took out the worksheet he'd been working on during homeroom and started reading off questions. "When did Christopher Columbus discover America?"

"1776."

"What was Marco Polo's greatest achievement?"

"He invented the light bulb."

Zim smirked. "That recently?" he said. "At that rate, you could have only discovered electricity a mere thousand years ago."

"Yeah, something like that," Dib said absently. Zim snickered.

Dib just barely managed to finish copying the answers when the bell rang to end lunch. He sighed, relieved, and flung Zim's paper back at him. "I'm still watching you, alien," he said, heading to where he'd left his backpack.

"By the way, Dib," Zim called, "as I am sure that at least half the answers you gave me were false, I took the liberty of giving you a paper with half my answers wrong." He laughed wickedly. "Good luck figuring out which ones!"

Dib stopped and stared in horror at his notebook. "What?!" He whirled around, but Zim was already gone. Half his answers completely wrong, and now he had no time to fix them. That monster! "Curse you, Zim!"

A seventh grader beside Dib gave him an alarmed look. "Freak."

xxx

It took Purple just under two days to get back to the Massive, and he still had plenty of snacks. To think that Zim had that huge stash of Duper Dip... Purple wondered where he'd gotten it all, with the shortage. Probably the black market; if Zim was dealing hydroxylic acid, who knew what kinds of traders he ran into? Well, Purple would be enjoying the dip for quite a while, at least.

Before contacting the Massive and asking to be let in, Purple stopped his Spittle Runner and got back in uniform. Torso armor, three waistbands, his stiff outer skirt with its hover-belt. The last things to go on were the armored gauntlets, because it would be impossible to put everything else on while wearing them. Purple probably preferred every other uniform he'd ever worn to the uniform of the Tallest. Even the hover-belt didn't help; occasionally he forgot how to move in it, although all he had to do was think how he wanted to move and his Pak took care of the rest. It just didn't feel natural. Of course, it amused Red no end whenever Purple said he was "stuck" in midair...

He hailed the Massive and was, of course, immediately answered; the Communication Technicians would know that he was hailing them from his Runner. "Hi, Red," he said. "Requesting permission to enter?" He grinned. As if he _needed_ permission.

Red attempted a thoughtful look. "I dunno..." he said. "I'll have to think about it."

"Aww, c'mon. Please?"

"Nah, I don't think so." Red was trying to look serious and not quite succeeding. "Maybe I'll let you float out there for a year or two." The Communication and Navigation Techs were looking at Red as if he were insane.

Purple sighed melodramatically. "Oh, woe is me," he lamented. "I suppose I'll have to eat all this by myself, then..." He held up a jar of Duper Dip.

Red's eyes widened. "I changed my mind, come on in!" he said brightly. The Technicians sighed in relief.

On Purple's way from the hangar to the bridge, no less than thirty Irkens stopped to greet their returning Tallest. He responded absently to each, glancing at the tops of their heads, trying to estimate their heights... 70 units, 65 units, 140 units, 50 units, 125 units, 70 units, 60 units, 30, 130, 45, 135, 55, 150, 130, 40, 155, 20, 175... Not a single Irken between 80 and 120 units.

Red was waiting at the entrance to the bridge with an open bag of chips. "Dump it in," he said, holding out the bag. Purple opened a jar of Duper Dip, emptied it in the bag, and he and Red dug in as they hovered back to their platform above the rest of the bridge.

"So," Red said around a mouthful of chips, "I take it your vacation on Foodcourtia went well?"

Purple stopped with a chip halfway to his mouth. "Er... yeah." There was no way that he could have told Red that he was leaving for about six days in order to fly to Earth, impregnate Exile Zim, and fly back. So he'd said he was taking a vacation to Foodcourtia.

Red nodded. "Where'd you find the dip? I thought there was a shortage."

"Um, yeah. It was a... small specialty shop. You know," Purple said awkwardly.

"Huh." Red ate another few chips, watching Purple closely. "What was it called?"

"It was..." Purple gulped. "You know what? I completely forgot." He laughed nervously. "It was in some weird foreign alphabet."

"Oh." Red watched Purple another few seconds, and then looked back at the chips. "I thought we outlawed alien alphabets on Foodcourtia?"

"Yeah, guess they didn't hear," Purple said.

"Guess so." Red chuckled. "That's just like you, to forget the name of a place selling Duper Dip, of all things."

"Yeah, really," Purple said, trying to laugh too. He paused. "Hey!"

"You know it's true, Pur," Red said.

"No it's not!"

"Yeah it is! What about the time you forgot the Planet Jacker ambassador's name?"

"Yeah right, like Fluz-Boo is an easy name to remember! What about you and the Military Elite Exams, huh?"

"What about them?"

"You forgot the difference between Videogamia and Arcadia!"

"They're a lot alike, it's easy to confuse them!"

"Videogamia doesn't have crane games, Red. No crane games. That's a BIG difference."

"Hey, not everyone is stupid enough that they had to study for five days straight for that exam like _you_, Pur."

"No, some Irkens study for twenty days and then lie about it like _you_ did!"

"I did not!"

The Nav and Comm Techs serenely ignored the argument, and Purple and Red were grinning throughout the fight. They were best friends, after all, and every Irken could tell you that the best friends in the universe are the ones you always battle with. After all, if you expect your friend to get along with you all the time, you're not going to keep that friend very long. As far as Red and Purple were concerned, they had the best friendship in the Empire, one where they could talk about (and fight about) almost anything.

Almost anything. Like every healthy Irken, both Red and Purple had a few secrets they would not and could not tell each other. Always small things, never enough to disturb their friendship.

Now, though, Purple had a new secret. Even without knowing anything about whatever Red was keeping hidden, he had a feeling that this secret was larger than the sum of everything they'd ever kept from each other before.

If Red ever found out about where Purple had really been the past six days...

Like every other healthy Irken, Purple just kept smiling and pretending he had no secrets. If this plan could in any way help save the Empire from ripping in two, it would be worth it. Every time an Irken came into the bridge, Purple looked them up and down, trying to measure them from sight alone.

30... 160... 45... 40... 155... 20... 185...

xxx

Zim was starting to regret being nice to Keef that once. He had figured he could put up with the fool for one morning, but no, it didn't stop there. That had been last Thursday morning; today was Tuesday, and Keef had insisted upon walking Zim home every single day since. And over the weekend, he'd showed up on Sunday and stood down the street from Zim's base, watching it, for an hour—from two to three AM. It was a little creepy, now that Zim stopped to think about it.

"So we could find someone else to invite with us," Keef was saying, "or we could just go stag. What do you think?"

"Eh?" Zim hadn't been listening to a single word that came out of Keef. "What are you talking about?"

Keef gave Zim a surprised look. "The Turkey Dance is this Friday. It's the week before Thanksgiving. Who are you inviting?"

"Huh?!" Zim almost shuddered in revulsion. Who would want to _dance_ with a turkey? "Zim invites no one!"

"So you're going stag? Me too!" Keef said. "It'll be great, buddy. We can go alone... _together_." A dreamy look crossed his face.

"I don't think you understand," Zim said. "I don't intend to go with a stag, either." Honestly, humans danced with some strange things...

"Oh." Keef looked crestfallen. "Then, I guess someone else has already asked you?"

"No, just you."

"Oh n-no! I wasn't _asking_ you or... or anything like that!" Keef said. His face was turning a rather alarming shade of red, a strange talent of humans that Zim had never understood the use for. "But... well, I mean, if you _wanted_ me to—"

"Silence," Zim commanded. "I shall not be participating in this dance at all, either with a turkey or a stag."

"O... kay..." Keef turned a bit redder. His brows furrowed in puzzlement. "You mean you aren't going at all? Why not? It'll be a lot of fun."

"Of course it will be. Dancing is _always_ fun," Zim said. "However, I... eh... would rather not go."

"Why?"

This would be tricky; it was simply unnatural to not want to dance, unless it was for a very good reason. If Zim weren't careful, he could arouse suspicions. "Well, you see, I, uh..." What was that thing the teacher-fiend in Health class last year kept telling the students to do? "I have chosen to abstain dancing until marriage!"

"Really?" Keef looked at Zim oddly. "Hey, Zim. As your bestest friend ever, do you mind if I ask you a... well, sorta really weird question?"

"What?" Zim's eyes shot wide open. Had he said something wrong after all? What was his mistake? How much did Keef suspect? He hadn't been careful enough; he'd somehow put his mission in grave danger. Zim crossed his arms protectively. The future of the Irken Empire depended on his _not_ getting dissected for the next three weeks. "What kind of a question?"

"Are you a Quaker?"

Zim sighed in relief. "Sure, sure! Zim is a quacker."

"Wow, Zim," Keef said, eyes glimmering in adoration. Was he tearing up? "You really are a good person."

"Yes. Yes I am." Zim managed a casual laugh. "Heh, for a moment, I thought you were going to ask something really crazy, like, 'Are you an alien?' Which I'm not!"

"It's all right, Zim," Keef said. "I've known you're an alien since sixth grade. That surprise gift from you gave me x-ray vision for a while, so I saw under your disguise. But don't worry, I wouldn't tell anyone."

"X-ray vision, fascinating," Zim said idly, not paying a bit of attention. So his mission was safe after all. Keef didn't suspect a thing.

They walked in silence for a moment, until Keef ruined a perfectly good moment and spoke up again. "Hey, Zim. Have you been gaining weight lately?"

"I? Never!" Zim said indignantly.

"Sorry!" Keef said quickly. "You just looked a little, y'know, wider than usual." He held his hands a few inches in front of his stomach to demonstrate. "Guess it's just me."

"Hmph." Honestly, Zim had noticed it too—his uniform was a bit tighter than usual, and while the fabric used for the tops of most Irken uniforms was very stretchy, that didn't make it comfortable when it didn't quite fit.

Zim had forgotten that growing eggs would make him bigger for a while—when he'd been given this mission, he'd only considered the difficulties he would have in continuing his now-nonexistent mission to conquer Earth. No matter, Zim could handle the slight additional inconvenience.

Zim spotted his base, and sighed in relief. He could finally get away from this fool. "This is where we part ways, Keef. I'll see you tomorrow." Unfortunately.

"All right, pal," Keef said. "I'd love to stay and chat, but my house is on the other side of the city and I missed my bus to walk with you home. If I get going now maybe I can get across the highway before rush hour starts. Wish me luck!" He turned around and broke into a run down the street.

"Good luck!" Zim shouted, then muttered, "If I'm lucky you'll get hit by a bus."

This mission wasn't nearly as glamorous as Zim had hoped. Sure, getting a chance to save his empire was sorta cool, but Zim was not born to make smeets. He still had Invader's blood, and it was still marching through him as insistently as ever. The last few days had been a challenge for him, watching the humans, listening as they practically _begged_ to be conquered, learning their greatest weaknesses ("Omahgawd, I'd just _die_ if I ran out of lip-gloss"), planning, scheming, yearning to just destroy them. However, he was not an Invader, and it would take quite some time for Zim to convince the Tallest to restore his proper title. But convince them he would.

When Zim entered his base, he was immediately pummeled by something feathery and panicky. Zim swatted it away from himself long enough to see it was a chicken before, with an alarming _bawk_, it flew past him and outside. A chicken? Hadn't Zim ordered Gir to get rid of them last week? "GIR!"

Gir leaped into the room with a flying kick, optics red and head covered in glued-on feathers. "Yes, my Master!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Zim demanded, gesturing wildly around the room.

Gir's optics reverted to their normal color as he looked around the room in wonder. "I think we live here..."

"Get rid of this stupid birdy filth!" Zim said, pointing outside in the direction the chicken had gone. "I want it _out_ of my base! Now, Gir!"

"But—"

"No! No buts! Everything that's currently living inside this base except me needs to go _out!_" Why was it taking so long to get rid of these stupid birds anyway?

"Okaaay," Gir said, feather-coated antenna dropping.

"Good." Muttering to himself about the injustices he must put up with, Zim climbed into the kitchen toilet to take him down to the subterranean levels.

With great somberness and dole, Gir climbed into his costume, plodded outside, and sat down on the sidewalk. Master had said everything living in the base goes out. Gir gave a long, deep, tragic sigh, the kind of sigh that would move a world to tears. A really emotional world, at least. Woe was Gir.

One of the lawn gnomes rolled over to pat Gir on the head. In the computer's voice, it said, "I changed my mind again. Master needs to get laid."

Gir nodded.

A cheerful kid on a blue tricycle rolled by, humming the melody of a song that a young child his age should never, ever be allowed to hear. Gir gasped. "That's my favorite song!" he squealed, and gleefully took off after the kid in rocket mode. The kid shrieked in terror and pedaled away as fast as humanly possible.

When Gir was well out of sight, the computer spoke again through the lawn gnome. "Okay, Millie, I think it's safe now."

The hen, which had been hiding behind a tree, clucked in gratitude and ran back into Zim's base.

xxx

In the recharge chamber, Zim plugged into the chair, turned on the computer screen, and called up the Central Empirical Statistics Database. He'd meant to do some research of his own about his Tallest's claims. Not that he doubted that Tallest Purple had been telling the truth, of course—he just wanted to see the evidence for himself.

First, he looked up the records of the Tallest's heights. At the top, of course, were Tallest Red and Tallest Purple, 217.240081 and 217.239046 units, respectively. Zim paused, staring at the numbers. That couldn't be right. The Tallest, different heights? If these statistics were correct, then only Red was the true Tallest, and Purple was merely the second-tallest Irken alive. Sure, Purple should deserve a high rank in the empire, Military Commander or High Invader or Royal Technician or Grand Frylord or something. But he shouldn't be a _Tallest_. How had he ended up in charge?

Zim accessed Purple's file to see if there was any explanation for why he was Tallest. And there was, in the first paragraph:

_Despite the fact that Tallest Purple is shorter than Tallest Red, they are legally recognized as the same height under the Tenth Law_.

Zim had heard of no such law before. He looked it up.

_The Tenth Law (enacted in 29836/9/8.3 by Tallest Red): Any Irken with a height quotient within a tenth of a unit (.1 unit) of the height quotient of the official Tallest Irken shall be legally recognized as a Tallest as well_.

Zim went back to the first page. Now that he looked at the dates, he realized that Red had become Tallest three days before Purple; this law had been made during that three-day gap. Zim hadn't known that law existed. He wondered what its purpose was—and why Red had been the one to write it, when it meant that he wouldn't be Tallest by himself. If Zim were Tallest, he certainly wouldn't have made a law that forced him to share power with some inferior...

Zim shrugged to himself, and returned to his original mission, skimming the list of former Tallest to determine their heights. Purple had been right about one thing: the farther back in time the records went, the shorter the Tallest got. So, this at least proved that Irkens had been growing taller through the eras. But had they been growing shorter on the other end?

Unfortunately, according to the Statistics Database, no records of the shortest Irkens were kept, only the Tallest. Only the current shortest Irken alive was listed, Exile Zim. (He conveniently ignored the title that came before his name; he had decided not to dwell on his exile, the same way he didn't dwell on the fact that he had blacked out Irk twice, Devastis once, and accidentally assassinated two Tallest.)

Then, perhaps Zim could find those curvy-graph-bells that Purple had shown him, so he could look at them more closely? The Statistics Database kept records of the average pay of Irkens, the numbers and species of aliens assimilated into the empire and what worlds they lived on, which supplies had a surplus (usually small electronics) and which had a shortage (usually the best snacks), and Slark knew what else. Surely, it would have height records, as well?

As soon as Zim did a search for a height quotient graph, the screen went dark. "Eh?!" He stretched forward to poke the screen. "What is this?"

"_Access denied_," the screen said in bright yellow letters. "_Insufficient security clearance to unlock information._"

"Says who?"

"_Says the Control Brains,_" the text read. "_Clearance levels below Rank Tower are insufficient._"

"But that's the Tallest's rank!"

"_That is correct_." The text flashed for a moment, went dark, and a new message popped up. "_How do you know that Rank Tower is the Tallest's rank? Only the Tallest and the Taller Advisors are supposed to know about Rank Tower._"

Zim shrugged. "I guess I'm just that amazing." As an Invader, he was—or he _had_ been—Rank Façade-3. He had no idea what it meant but only that it sounded cooler than his rank as a Frycook. Rank Drive-Thru-5 indeed. Only losers were Rank _Anything_-5.

"_No. You are very creepy, Exile Zim,_" the text said, and then vanished. The screen returned to the front page of the Empirical Statistics Database.

Zim tried a few more times to find the graphs Purple had shown him. He never again got the black screen with the yellow text, but he did keep getting "Error – Data Not Found" notices. On his tenth try, when he got a notice that said "Error – Data STILL Not Found. Give it up, you moron," he concluded that he wouldn't be finding out any more about the height issue.

He left the Database and opened two new windows; one streaming a news report from the Massive, and one ancient Vortian report about Irken reproduction. He figured he'd better find out exactly what laying eggs would entail.

Unfortunately, he didn't get very far on his research; the news was reporting on Invader Spleen's recent conquest of his planet, which no one had bothered to learn the name of. It was officially renamed Cheaphookeria and was already predicted to become the second most popular vacation destination in the Irken Empire, right behind Foodcourtia.

Zim couldn't help but feel an awful twisting in his guts as he watched, something dark and painful inside him. When was the last time the Tallest had beamed at him the way they were beaming at Spleen? Even when Tallest Purple had given Zim his super special secret mission, even when Zim had boldly accepted it... sure, in that one moment, Purple had looked a little impressed, but never _proud_ of Zim. Never proud. Why not? Didn't Zim deserve that honor? Didn't he?

_Did_ he deserve it?

Snacks—Zim needed snacks. That'd help. Trying not to feel unnerved by his moment of darkness, Zim unplugged his Pak, exited the recharge chamber, and headed quickly up to the kitchen to get something to eat. Something sugary. Anything to prevent that darkness from progressing, from sucking him down; every Irken had to deal with that whirlpool every once in a while, even if they didn't always admit it...

He never read the report he'd opened: _she would, 99 percent of the time, die long before laying any eggs..._ Oblivious, Zim found a bag of candy and started eating. To think, the Tallest were still running the Empire without Zim there to assist. A tragedy. After all, the Irken Empire _needed_ Zim, whether or not they realized it. Zim knew it, at least.

Well, he'd find a way to become a part of the Empire again. Zim would get back in the Tallest's good graces, or die trying.

xxxxx


	6. Mission Abortion

A/N: In which Zim's mission takes a turn for the worse. An evil author am I. Thank you for all your reviews, please remember to review and let me know what you think so far, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Mission Abortion

xxx

From Dib's notes, Thurs. Nov. 20: _Another dance tomorrow, the Turkey Dance. I think it used to be a Holiday Dance but the school district had to move it up a month, since now we've got to spend all December preparing for Santa to attack. (Thanks a lot, Zim. Stupid evil Santa-suit.)_

_Speaking of Zim, he's reacting about the same to this dance as he did to the Valentine's one. Generally shuddering every time he sees a poster. Today I walked up to him and said I was going (which I'm not), just to see what he would do. He called me a "beasty fetishist" and asked if I was going with a fowl or a deer. The more I talk to Zim, the less I think I really want to learn about his species._

_Oh, and Zim's starting to look weird, too. I think he's been gaining weight the last few days. He almost looks like he swallowed a dodgeball. Kinda funny, actually._

_If he keeps getting fat, I'll be sure to take more notes. Maybe I can learn something about the anatomy of his species this way._

xxx

From Dib's notes, Mon. Nov. 24: _Zim got BIG over the weekend. It's crazy. His torso got... I dunno, maybe two times bigger than normal? It's really freaky._

_I've noticed something interesting, too. He doesn't look like he did that time when he stole all those organs. Back then he was kinda blobby. Now, whatever it is making him bigger, it's really, really tight. Like if you poked him he'd be really hard or something, not squishy. Maybe that was because he hadn't digested the organs two years ago, but when his species digests food and turns it into fat, the fat... crystallizes or something? Which is why he looks different now? No, that's stupid. But something strange is going on._

_I think I've figured out why he's getting so fat, too. He's started bringing his own lunch. An ALIEN lunch. I realized that up until now I've never seen Zim actually eating much before, but he really gobbles this stuff up. It looks like a bunch of snacks, but they've got alien logos on them, so who knows. Maybe I should find out._

Dib shoved his notebook back into an inner pocket of his trench coat and stood up. Zim was several tables away, eating his fourth bag of who-knew-what. Dib unceremoniously sat down across from Zim, pointed at the bag, and said, "What's that stuff that looks like chips? Huh?"

Zim gave Dib a confused look. "Chips."

"Oh." Dib pointed at another packaged food item. "Then what's that thing shaped like a candy bar?"

"A candy bar." Zim was starting to smirk.

"Oh." Dib looked at all the wrappers and bags strewn in front of Zim. There had to be about twenty. "You mean all this stuff is junk food?"

"It's not _junk_ food, it's snacks," Zim said, as if to him there was a huge difference. "Though I suppose you carnivorous humans with your filthy _meat_ wouldn't like snacks."

"Humans are _omnivorous_, Zim. Any normal human would know that." Okay, honestly, considering the fact that their school had a giant sign that said Joonier Hi Skool, he doubted all that many people even knew what omnivorous meant.

"Same difference, meat-eating meat-bag. You still can't possibly appreciate snacks."

"Yeah, I can. I like snacks," Dib said testily. Really, did Zim have to turn everything into a fight? "Hey, can I try some?"

Zim gave Dib a suspicious look. "Why should I give you one?"

"To help prove that you aren't going to take over the planet," Dib said. "As a gesture of good will."

Zim sneered at the words, but said, "Fine. You may have one and _only_ one chip." He held out his bag.

Surprised, Dib said, "Thanks," and took one. It wasn't bad, he thought, chewing it. Though it was a little...

Dib's eyes almost popped out of his head. He grabbed at his throat, and started coughing and trying to spit out the chip at the same time. "W-water!" he gasped.

"Of course there's no water in it," Zim said, looking amused. "What good is a snack that burns you?"

Burns? Zim thought WATER burns? Did he have any taste buds?!

Zim chuckled. "Not many species other than Irkens can handle the flavoring," he said innocently. "It slipped my mind that you might not like it."

Dib shot Zim a watery glare before getting up and stumbling back to his seat, still hacking. Zim's laughter followed him all the way to his seat.

From Dib's notes, Mon. Nov. 24, continued: _Taste buds burnd of. Canot taste anymore. Note to self: never __ever__ acept any food that Zim offrs. EVER._

xxx

From Dib's notes, Thurs. Nov. 27: _No school today for Thanksgiving. I heard that they used to give you most of the week off for Thanksgiving, but that must have been a long time ago because now we just get Thanksgiving's Day off. Gaz and I ordered a turkey pizza for breakfast (I didn't even know they made those), and we crushed up some fries for mashed potatoes, so that was our Thanksgiving dinner. Dad even changed his pre-recorded video message to say happy holidays, which is the first time he's changed it since June. That was kinda cool._

_Since we had the day off, I got to follow Zim around. He didn't really do anything. Maybe he really is telling the truth about not trying to take over Earth anymore. He spent about six hours just walking around the city with Gir. (I think he was lost.) The most interesting thing that happened was when he walked into a store with porno vids. He came back out five minutes later laughing so hard he could barely stand. Actually, I can't really blame him for that. Most of those videos are pretty stupid._

_Dad, if you ever read this, I DO NOT know that from personal experience! I heard it at school, okay? Okay._

_That reminds me: it's been two weeks since that day Zim came to school acting so freakishly happy. Maybe there's some connection between that and his weight-gaining, though I don't know why._

_Oh! I just got an idea! It's so cool! Hey, think of this: Maybe its some kind of molt Zim's goig throu? He could be going thru some wierd change and come out of it a realy freaky monster or somthing!! Man that'd be cool! But bad. Really bad. Unless he turns into a good monster._

_That doesn't look as smart on paper as it did in my head. Well, it's still possible. I'll keep it in mind. Alien fat equals future molt?_

_He's still getting bigger, too. It doesn't look comfortable. I think he's having a hard time bending over. I wonder how much longer he's going to get bigger?­_

xxx

From Dib's notes, Wed. Dec. 3: _Zim hasn't stopped gaining weight yet. Okay, whatever it is he did to get this to happen, he did it __wrong__. His body's gotta be five times bigger than normal._

_He can't talk very long and I don't think I've heard him shout since last week: he probably isn't breathing very well, by the looks of it. His arms and legs aren't any bigger at all so he's got to waddle around. I think he'd probably get around faster if he just rolled himself. Maybe I should just push him and see what happens. Between class periods when he's in a mostly empty hall, he's started using the metal legs from his back-pod to walk. He's even risking his own disguise now. It's that bad._

_Zim can't even get in his desk now. I watched him spend the first five minutes of homeroom trying to squeeze between the desk and the chair. Now he's just leaning against his desk and acting like it had been his plan to spend the whole class standing._

_Some kid just called him fatty and he denied that he was "in any way allowing my superior body fall prey to your filthy bodily lard-sacks." WHY doesn't anyone believe he's an alien? __WHY??_

_And is it just me, or does Zim look kinda scared?_

_Why am I asking my notebook, anyway??_

xxx

From Dib's notes, Fri. Dec. 5: _Zim didn't show up at school today..._

xxx

Tallest Purple had said the eggs would take four weeks to grow. That had been three weeks and two days ago. Today, Zim almost died.

For a moment, when he woke up, he couldn't remember who he was. Eyes wide open, he simply stared at the distant blurry lights, wondering who he was, where he was, how he'd gotten there, and why it was so hard to breathe. He couldn't stand up.

Behind him, on his back, a metallic voice said, "_Reactivate_," and he felt a small surge of electricity pass through him. He mechanically gasped in air, and hissed, "_Zim_. I am... Zim."

His head was throbbing and dizzy; his heart was beating so fast he could practically _hear_ it, each beat vibrating through his antennae; he still couldn't breathe. At least now he could remember why he wasn't able to stand—his legs were too small to carry his weight. He extended his Pak-legs and shakily lifted himself up. "Computer? What happ..." He had to stop and take a breath. "Happened?"

"You stopped breathing," the computer said, "and then your heart stopped."

Sharp jabs of fear shot through him. "Wh-what?! H..." Gasp. "How did this..." Gasp. "This..."

"Hey, don't knock yourself out again. Just calm down," the computer said. "You passed out while you were heading out to school. You couldn't breathe well because the eggs are crushing your lungs, so when you put your contacts in, you started suffocating."

Zim's eyes widened. He quickly removed his contacts. That let him breathe a little more easily, but not by much.

"Then when you were unconscious, the eggs started putting pressure on your heart, which made it stop," the computer continued cheerfully. "So you were dead for a little bit."

Zim could feel it now, something making his heartbeat erratic. His heart was still throbbing so hard he could almost hear it, and the vibrations he felt through his antennae weren't uniform; they were short, weak, struggling. "How am I... a-alive?"

"Your Pak preserved your brain and kept jolting your heart until it started working again," the computer said.

Zim nodded wearily. "How long... was...?"

"About five hours."

For a moment, his heart and breath stopped again. He had been _dead_ for five hours? It had taken _forty-six degrees_ for his heart to start working again? How many times had his Pak tried to wake him? What if his Pak had been too low on energy to save him?

Considering how much power was probably wasted restarting his heart, and how much he was wasting now just to keep his Pak-legs holding him upright, he was probably dangerously low on energy. Wasting just a bit more, Zim turned on his air filters so he could breath well enough to speak almost normally. "Computer, how much damage have the eggs caused?" There was no way Zim was attempting to go to school, not after he'd missed half the day and NOT in this condition, so he headed to the recharge chamber as the computer spoke.

"The eggs are putting extreme pressure on your lungs, heart, squeedily-spooch, and other, minor organs. They're also starting to interfere with your nerve cord, which could result in permanent paralysis to your legs—or if the eggs get much bigger, permanent paralysis from the neck down. If that were to occur, it would sever the connection between your brain and your Pak. Which would kill you."

"Great," Zim muttered. He seated himself awkwardly on the chair in the recharge chamber and plugged his Pak in. He was lucky he'd passed out in the subterranean levels of the base, he supposed; he probably wouldn't fit in most of the lifts now.

"They've also cracked your exoskeleton in six places. You'll need surgery for that."

Always with the surgery these days. "Can you do it?"

"Yeah." The computer paused. "But it might kill you, too."

Zim shut his eyes wearily, but had to open them again; he needed as much air as possible. "Is there anything you can do that _won't_ kill me?"

"Probably not, until you get rid of the eggs. If they grow anymore, they'll _definitely_ kill you," the computer said. "I know a human way to get rid of them. Buuut, it—"

"Might kill me, too?"

"Pretty much."

Then what was Zim supposed to do?! He was too drained and pained to even work up a real rage, his mind too fogged to feel real terror. "What is this human-thing?"

"An... abortion. Pregnant humans use it when they don't want to have a baby."

Zim had heard of no such thing before, except in a military context—like, a mission abortion. There was certainly no concept like a human-abortion on Irk; there was no need for one, after all. But, perhaps, back when Irkens _had_ produced their own offspring, there had been a similar abortion process?

"Computer," Zim said. "Establish a connection with..." breathe; not even his Pak-filters were enough, "... Vortian prisoner number Seven-Seventy-Seven." Zim dimly recalled that during his time on Vort, 777 (he'd been known as S'vins-vins or something back then) said he'd once done a load of research on Irkens. That was before Vort was conquered and he was thrown into prison.

If Zim was to keep all of this secret from the rest of Irk and couldn't even contact Tallest Purple, then 777 was his only chance.

He didn't even care about his "special" mission now. _Nothing_ was more important to Zim than Zim's life; "the empire before the Irken," sure, but where would the empire be without _this_ Irken?

For the first time he could remember, Zim wanted nothing more than to abort his mission.

"Connecting to Vort..."

xxx

Life as a prisoner was very, very boring. Especially for any Vortians who weren't currently assigned to a military research project, as Vortians get bored really easily. Every once in a while the guards would scramble up a few Rubik's cubes and toss them in the Vortians' cells, or pass around some books on philosophy, but otherwise they were just bored.

And thirsty. Somehow, "Vortians are amphibious" translated into "Vortians only need two cups of water a day." Cruddy Irkens with their cruddy hydrophobia.

Sevince Vensvin—better known as Prisoner No. 777—considered himself luckier than most Vortian prisoners. After all, Zim's infrequent (and highly illegal) calls gave him something interesting to do. Sure, when he'd first been captured, he'd resented Zim's calls; just the conquering villain gloating over the fallen race. But now he didn't care any more. Seven hundred-odd dreary days of incarceration will do that to a Vortian.

The communicator, a tiny screen in the top corner of Sevince Vensvin's cell, said, "Incoming transmission from Earth." He looked up eagerly. He didn't give a crap what Zim asked for; if he asked for the coordinates of the Resisty (and if Sevince Vensvin had any clue where they were) he would gladly give over the information. Anything for some intellectual stimulation. "Greetings, Invader Zim!" he said cheerily. "What can I do for _whoa, shit!_ What happened to _you?!_"

Sevince Vensvin had seen prisoners try to get past the Vetkin Splodey System, the one that detected their bio signatures, made them bloat, and then blew them up; Zim looked almost like one of the would-be escapees, a moment before they popped. Based on the expression on his face, he felt about as bad.

"You studied Irken anatomy, right?" Zim demanded. His voice was weak, like there was a great pressure on his chest, cutting off his breath.

"Um..." He couldn't stop staring at Zim's torso. "More like physiology and psychology..."

"_Whatever!_" Zim couldn't scream; it came out like a hiss. "Do you know how to... to do an Irken abortion?"

"A... _what?_"

"Abortion. Irkens _had_ to have them once." Zim almost sounded desperate. "How do I do it?"

Sevince Vensvin looked at Zim's bloated body with new horror. Then, that's what this was...? He'd had no idea that any Irkens could still reproduce. "You're _female_?"

"_No!_" Zim said. "Priso... er, Vincy-Vincy—_please_."

He couldn't remember the last time Zim had used his name. True, Zim never said it properly, but the fact that he had tried... This was serious. Sevince Vensvin bit his lip. "Okay, abortions..." he thought a moment. "Not many Vortians get abortions, unless it's a medical emergency..."

"This _is_ a med—" Zim coughed, and had to struggle to breath in again, "mergen... cy."

"Yeah, so I see," Sevince Vensvin muttered nervously. How bad was this? What if Zim died? How would Sevince Vensvin keep entertained then? He sighed. "I've never heard about any Irken abortions before. If they ever existed, I don't know anything."

Zim's eyes widened. "_What?_"

"Maybe if you tell me how it happened?" Sevince Vensvin suggested. "Maybe a weird creature on Earth planted eggs in your stomach? Or some kind of trap?"

Zim shook his head. "It's top secret stuff. It wasn't a tra—" He froze. For a long moment, Sevince Vensvin worried that he'd had a heart attack.

Then, something behind Zim's eyes darkened. Sevince Vensvin recognized that look. He'd written an entire paper around what happens when Irkens get that look. That was the whirlpool look, the drowning-in-dark-water look. That was the borderline suicidal look.

"You know what?" Zim said slowly. "Forget the secret. If this thing kills me, I'll tell you everything. And I'll expect you to tell the rest of the empire." He cut the connection.

Sevince Vensvin stared at the screen. "But how can you tell me the secret if you're dead?" He scowled. "Piss-rocks."

Even being bored was better than dying of curiosity.

xxx

On the outside, Zim was sitting perfectly still, eyes wide open, breathing as deeply as possible, feeling each heartbeat vibrate through him. Inside, he was screaming, raging, ranting, murdering, slaughtering, wreaking his vengeance upon the two who were blind to all he contributed to his empire, the two who never appreciated Zim and all his glorious triumphs on their behalf.

The _Almighty_ Tallest.

Zim was a fool to have trusted Tallest Purple, especially after he'd confessed to lying to Zim once about his mission. Zim had even asked Purple why he should trust him now. What had the answer been?

"_Zim, you're going to be _making smeets_. You can't trick someone into thinking they're growing eggs when they aren't. I mean... it's kinda impossible._"

He was right; that was impossible to lie about. And true to Purple's word, Zim was growing eggs.

But he'd never promised that Zim could trust him.

The eggs were going to kill Zim.

Zim understood it all now, oh yes, he knew precisely what they were up to. The Tallest had banished Zim once, and weren't satisfied. They had exiled Zim once, and that hadn't killed him. Now, they had schemed up a new... er, scheme. One even more devious, more treacherous than ever before, one that went so low as to prey upon Zim's loyalty to the empire. They had tricked Zim into killing himself!

"_Zim, I thought you wanted to be a hero for the Irken Empire!_"

"Shoot me," Zim hissed, with all the venom he could muster—the crudest, filthiest swear on Irk, not only a threat of suicide but also an order for someone else to assist in it. Of course, Zim didn't mean it, but he thought it'd help to say it out loud and imagine the looks on the Tallest's faces.

It didn't.

Zim unplugged his Pak, stood with his Pak-legs, and left the recharge chamber. "Computer, how long do you predict it..." Breathe. "It will be until the eggs are too big?"

"Uhh... Too big for what?"

Zim scowled. "For _me_."

"Oh! Right. Uh, maybe... Three-ish days?"

He had three days to live. "Fine." Not that he _intended_ to die then, oh no; if he lived past the three days, long enough to lay the eggs, he'd just be able to call Tallest Purple and tell him that he'd survived yet another death-trap and emerged, as always, victorious. And Zim didn't plan on calling Purple in his private quarters, either, the way he'd been ordered to. He could just call him on the bridge of the Massive, and let the entire Irken Empire see just what their Tallest were doing to the empire's finest Invader.

And if it _did_ kill Zim... well. He planned on making that call anyway, in his last moments. If he had to die, he'd die seeing the Tallest's shocked faces, knowing he'd taken them down with him.

Naturally, it never crossed Zim's mind that the Irken Empire were more likely to celebrate than to mourn his death. But it was only fitting that even as he died, he planned on putting Red and Purple through hell one last time.

xxxxx


	7. Broken Pieces

Thank you all for the reviews! It means a ton to me, it really does. The fact that so many people are enjoying this, people who are saying they've never seen a ZAPR before or never thought mpreg could be done well... It's really awesome.

Anyway, a quick note: despite the fact that Irkens do appear fairly bug-like, I see their smeets as having eggs with hard shells, rather than soft. Among other reasons, usually species with soft eggshells lay their eggs in water or other damp places, which would be a bad idea for Irkens. So, they get hard eggs.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Broken Pieces

xxx

From a form filled out at the Vortian Scola Institute nine Irken years ago: _**Military Inventor Layman's Facts Form (MILF form):**_

_**Name**__: ZIM __**Species**__: SUPERIOR IRKEN_

_**Name of invention**__: WORMHOLE DRIVE THINGY_

_**Purpose of invention**__: to locate wormholes in outer space, identify what is at the other end, and transport a spacecraft through the wormhole safely. without one of my brilliant drives, any ship that attempts to travel through a wormhole will be crushed by the pure mind-imploding pressure. i fixed that._

_**How has this invention been tested?**__: it hasn't. no one will let me._

_**How did it perform in tests?**__: IT WILL PERFORM PERFECTLY._

_**Is there any practical application of your invention?**__: zim does not make useless inventions. it can be used to cross the entire universe in a matter of degrees. i'm genius like that._

_**Final evaluation by heads of institution**__: While we at the Scola Institute do appreciate the Irken Zim's attempted contributions to the realm of scientific progress (and his remembering for the first time to fill out the MILF form), we find his proposed blueprint of the "Wormhole Drive" to be unreliable, incomprehensible, and generally ridiculous. We doubt he's ever seen the inside of a ship's engine in his life. Thus, we must veto Zim's request to build and test a prototype, and suggest he work on something more appropriate for his level of skill. Zim—why don't you start on that creature you thought up that can absorb energy for food? It could make a nice pet._

xxx

For the past few weeks, Purple had lived in pure terror that Zim would call and ruin everything. It had been twenty-five days since he'd returned to the Massive, twenty-seven since he had danced with Zim, and the eggs would be ready in the next two or three days.

Really, he was stunned that Zim had resisted the urge to call his quarters for this long. That probably meant he'd do something even worse.

"Approaching Planet Vort!" one of the Navigation Technicians declared.

Red glanced at Purple. "Think we need to stop here?" he asked. "Y'know, check in on the Vortian prisoners?"

"Huh? What?" Purple gave Red a blank look. He hadn't been listening.

"The Vortians, Purple."

"Oh. Uh... no," Purple said. "Why would we want to see the Vortians, huh?"

Red shrugged, and turned to the Nav Tech. "Maintain current course."

"As you command, my Tallest."

Sometimes, Purple really envied Red. Any time a question popped up, Red immediately reacted; they approached a planet, he asked Purple his opinion and then decided if they needed to stop. An alien race contacted them asking for a treaty with the Irken Empire, Red was the one that let Purple know, and then he practically ran any treaty discussions by himself—it was all Purple could do to come up with anything worth contributing. Yet, Red always stopped and made sure he heard what Purple was saying, and asked for Purple's input on everything, even though Purple was sure Red could handle everything by himself just fine.

Purple wasn't even supposed to be Tallest, after all. Sometimes he wondered what Red had been thinking when he'd come up with the Tenth Law—not that Purple minded. They'd both thought for years, ever since they were five or six, that one of them would become Tallest. They'd promised that should that day come, whoever was Tallest would appoint the other Grand Taller Advisor. But Purple had never expected Red to change the _law_ for him.

Even so, sometimes Red could be a complete idiot. Purple would have a much easier time dealing with this disappearance of middle-height Irkens if Red would just help him...

A loud beeping from one of the Communication Tech's stations signaled that the Massive was being contacted. The Comm Tech turned to the Tallest and said, "Incoming transmission from Earth!"

Purple whirled to look at the Tech. "What did you say?!"

"Er..." The poor Comm Tech shrank down in his seat. "I said... 'Incoming transmission from Irk,' my Tallest."

"No, you didn't!"

"Yeah, he did." Red gave Purple a weird look. Purple had been getting that look a lot, lately.

"Nuh-uh, he did NOT say Irk the first time!"

"He said Irk, Pur. Really. I heard him." Red looked around the bridge. "Did any of you hear anything else?"

The other Comm and Nav Techs shook their heads.

"See? What did you think he said?"

"Nothing," Purple muttered.

Red shook his head, grinning. "Idiot. 'Irk' doesn't sound anything like 'nothing'."

"_You're_ an idiot," Purple shot back, then looked at the Comm Tech. "Display transmission on main screen."

The screen turned on to display a medium-tall Irken (175 units, Purple immediately thought) with small sewer-green eyes. He smiled widely and bowed so low Purple could only see his Pak and his butt. "Greetings, my Tallest!"

Red and Purple groaned. Taller Advisor Pon was the most annoying Advisor they had to put up with—they couldn't imagine why Spork had hired him, except because he was tall. He was also in charge of single-handedly tracking every monetary transaction made on Irk; the Control Brains did that automatically, but Red and Purple had given Pon the job as well because they figured he'd be too busy to ever contact them again. They told him that he was "checking the Control Brains' math" to make sure they didn't miscalculate anything. As if the Control Brains' math needed checking.

But no, Pon did the job. And he called them once every two hundred and twenty days to give a report on everything he'd recorded.

"Aren't you a bit early, Advisor Pon?" Red asked tiredly.

"Yes I am, Tallest Red, yes I am!" Pon said enthusiastically. "In my spare time, I developed a logarithm to predict what purchases will be made in the immediate future, so I can give my report five days early on what's going to happen in the next few days. I can predict the future with math! Isn't that neat?"

Red and Purple stared, slack-jawed, at Pon. Finally, Purple managed to say, "You have _spare time?!_"

Pon chuckled modestly. "Anyway, here's my report, my Tallest." He held up a stack of at least five hundred pages.

"That's the last two hundred and fifteen days?!" Red said.

"No, not at all. This is just the first 55 degrees of the first day." He beamed. The Tallest stared in horror as their Paks clicked through some quick calculations. Five hundred pages on one fourth of a day... meant two thousand pages for a single day... meant 430,000 pages for 215 days...

"So, in the first degree..." Pon pulled up the first paper. "The first purchase was from a hygiene store, the Aswipe, of five boxes of twenty plastic toothpicks, for 75.5 monies..."

Purple had an idea. He leaned over to Red and whispered, "Hey. Isn't it winter on Irk?"

Red shrugged. "I dunno. Is it?"

"Yeah, it is. That means it's gonna be really cold outside, right?" Purple grinned evilly. Irk was freakishly cold during winters; biologists were still trying to figure out how Irkens had survived their own winters long enough to develop indoor heating.

Red grinned back. He caught on fast. "Hey, Pon."

Pon cut off his report and blinked, obviously taken aback at being interrupted. "Yes, my Tallest?"

"We can't hear you very well. I don't think your transmission is coming through clearly. You've got a pretty bad signal."

"Yeah," Purple said. "You should go outside and find a public transmitter to contact us from."

Pon looked horrified. "Outside? I'm sure I could find another transmitter in this build—"

"No, that simply won't do!" Purple said regally.

Red was struggling not to snicker. "I think our superior heights should be more than enough to prove that we know what we're doing. Isn't that right, Pur?"

"Sure is, Red."

"Yeah. So go find a transmitter outside."

"Y... yes, my Tallest," Pon said weakly. He bowed ridiculously low again, and then cut the transmission.

Red and Purple cracked up, and most of the Techs snickered along; the Tallest didn't hire Technicians for the Massive who didn't enjoy being involved in their pranks. "He's gonna freeze _solid_ out there," Red said. "Did you see the look on his face?"

"Yeah! You'd think we banished him to Insecticidia or something!"

The Tallest were still laughing when they heard the beep of another transmission. Pon at least got points for promptness, Purple thought.

The Comm Tech declared, "Incoming transmission from planet Earth!"

Now Purple was sure he was hearing things. "He said Irk, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Red asked. "He said Earth."

A second set of beeping started. The Comm Tech looked down at a second screen. "That one's from Irk, my Tallest."

Purple immediately stopped smiling. Red, however, grinned wider. "Hey, talk about timing! We can snub Pon and make fun of Zim at the same time," Red said. "Been a while since we heard from Zim, huh?"

"Why ruin a perfectly good record?" Purple said nervously. "Answer the transmission from Irk."

He could imagine what they'd see if they answered the one from Earth—Zim, beaming, holding up an armful of eggs: "_Hey, my Tallest! Tallest Purple! I've got all the eggs you impregnated me with! My Tallest! Hey! Tallest Purple? I have your eggs!_" Purple shuddered at the thought.

"No, don't answer Pon, he's boring," Red said. "Answer Zim."

"_No!_"

The Comm Tech was looking back and forth between the Tallest, baffled. Red looked almost as confused. "Why not? Hey, don't you want to let Pon sit out in the cold a while?"

"No! He's got important information to give us," Purple said.

Now most of the bridge was staring. "You think Pon's _important?_"

Purple gulped. "Well, he's more important than Zim, isn't he?"

Red thought about that a moment. "True... but Zim's more fun."

"Business before pleasure!" Purple glared at the Comm Tech. "Answer Pon. _Now_."

"_Don't!_" Red glared at Purple. "What's up with you? C'mon, Pon will be here later. Who knows, Zim might blow himself up or something if we don't answer, and then we'll never get to hear him being stupid again."

Purple laughed nervously. "Oh, blow himself up! Yeah, that's a good idea. Why don't we let him?"

"Don't be a moron, Pur."

"Hey!"

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to both the Tallest, the Nav Tech sitting beside the Comm Tech who had to decide which transmission to answer was doing a quick search on the Central Empirical Statistics Database. She leaned over to the poor Comm Tech and whispered, "Look at this."

He dragged his eyes away from the Tallest to see her screen.

"Among all the Tallest-ordered executions in the last two years, sixty-four percent of them were ordered by Tallest Red," she whispered. "So if you're gonna get killed for disobeying orders, there's only a thirty-six percent chance Tallest Purple would kill you."

He nodded weakly. "Thanks. I owe you."

"I know you do," the Nav Tech said. "Got any good snacks?" He shook his head. "Fine. In that case, my room's on the fourteenth tier, hall seven, room twenty-five. I get off duty at one-fifty degrees. Be there."

He grinned behind his collar. "Yes ma'am!" With that, he happily answered the transmission from Earth, safe in the knowledge that Purple was far less likely to kill him than Red was, and that if he survived the day then he'd be getting some.

The Comm Tech's satisfaction evaporated the instant the transmission from Earth was displayed on the view screen.

Red and Purple were cut off mid-argument by a raw shriek of pure agony. Both Tallest, along with the rest of the bridge, turned to look up at the transmission. Every Irken in the room gasped in shock.

Purple's prediction had been completely off. There was no beaming Zim, holding up half a dozen eggs. There was no Zim at all. Only what seemed to be a thousand metallic arms—long, thin arms, each tipped with vicious blades and scalpels and scissors, gleaming sharp and wicked with cold silver and dripping with hot, green, fresh, brilliantly shining blood. They danced almost blurrily over the scene, up and down, either operating on or dissecting something below the view of the transmission screen.

Purple felt his squeedilyspooch tie up in knots and bile rise in his throat. That was where Zim was.

The screen was suddenly half-covered. Zim's defective SIR had gotten in the way. It was splattered with rivulets of blood as well—how could such a small Irken produce so much blood?!—and looking quite a bit more somber than usual. "Hi," it said over the screaming. "Master said if he couldn't call when he got the eggs, I was supposed to call you for him. Mmkay?"

Purple didn't even notice that the SIR had just said the very thing he'd been fearing; just as well, because no one in the bridge would ever remember the comment. The robot hopped down and wandered out of sight, leaving only the knives and the blood and the sounds of slick metal and of screaming.

Every Irken in the bridge had their antennae flat against their head, doing everything they could to not hear the shrieks. But as Purple listened, he could start to hear words, between Zim's howls and his gasps for breath.

"Th-the PAIN! It's... I..." A moment of choking for air. "I c-can't... _You_... Y-you MONSTER!"

A cold shiver ran down Purple's back as he realized that _he_ was the monster at which Zim was screaming.

With renewed fury in his voice, Zim carried on. "_You did this!_ YOU DID THIS TO ME! I d-don't want to die!" Another furious, pained cry, and then, with a bellow that could probably be heard six tiers above and below the bridge: "K-_KILLER!_"

Purple felt a weight on one side; Red had grabbed his shoulder armor, either for balance or for comfort. Purple wished he could do the same.

Gasp. "_Y-you_..." Gasp; the fury in Zim's voice broke. "Please, help me! My Tallest! HELP ME!"

That was too much for Purple. Nauseous, he crossed his arms, jerked out of Red's grip, and said, weakly, "C-cut the transmission. Please. Just..."

No one responded. Purple growled. "I think I just said _cut the transmission_ you worthless roaches, and that is an order from your TALLEST! Cut it or so help me, I'll _shoot myself_ in front of all of you. NOW!"

All eyes were turned from the bloody screen to Purple; the transmission was cut immediately, leaving an unpleasant humming in their antennae. The echoes of Zim's dying screams.

"Pur, a-are you..."

Purple looked at Red guiltily. Red looked absolutely terrified. "Did you really mean..."

"No. No, of course not," Purple said quickly. He couldn't believe he'd just said that, broken the strongest taboo in the Irken Empire; he and Red had executed Irkens for saying less than what Purple had. The power of suggestion, especially on a topic like... like the S-word, could have enormous consequences. Even suggesting it to one's self increased the risk of actually... doing it. But Purple knew he had no intent to do _that_. "I'm fine, Red. I didn't mean it. Really. I'm just... a little... grossed out."

Red nodded slowly, looking very carefully at Purple's face. "Yeah. Okay."

"In fact," Purple said. "I'm gonna go get some curly fries. I'll be back later."

"Sure. Good idea," Red said as Purple turned away and started for the door. "Hey, bring some back for me, okay?"

"Get your own stupid fries. Lazy."

Purple could have sworn he heard Red chuckle. Good, he was about back to normal.

Really, Purple needed those fries. After that transmission from Zim, and his own outburst, he could have done with several baskets of fries. Either that or a quick dance, whatever it took to pick up his mood. But he didn't have time to swing by the Massive's food court.

Purple couldn't let Zim die like that. Even with all his flaws, he was still the only way Purple could think of to keep the empire from splitting in two. Besides, Zim couldn't die believing that somehow Purple had killed him.

It wasn't often that Purple felt guilty.

And, he told himself firmly, this was not one of those times.

They were probably still near Vort. Purple pulled a Sintillate candy out of his Pak and popped it in his mouth; sure, they were expensive, but this was a special occasion. As the sugar worked its way into his system, Purple hurried to the hangar of the Massive. He'd never reach Earth in time in his Spittle Runner, even flying as fast as possible.

Now, Vortians. Vortians, as every Irken knew, could figure out how to do anything.

xxx

Sevince Vensvin had a very, very difficult choice to make.

A Vortian several cells down the row had discovered a way for all of them to get more water; the process was whispered from cell to cell, from one prisoner to the next, until half the prison facility knew it. More water meant they wouldn't all be perpetually on the brink of dehydration, and perhaps, if the opportunity arose, it could be used as a weapon against the Irken guards. More water would be a blessing.

The source, however, made it something of a mixed blessing. Was it worth it?

Sevince Vensvin had been pacing his cell for half the day, thinking, when he realized just how thirsty he was. He glanced down at the cup in his hand; he'd drained it without even noticing. And the guards wouldn't refill it until evening. He groaned. "Fine, I give," he muttered. "I'll do it."

He eyed his cell's toilet critically. Now, how was he gonna figure out which pipe brought in the clean water and which one flushed out the dirty...?

"Prisoner 777?"

Sevince Vensvin jumped and whirled around to face the two Irkens outside his cell. "I'm not up to anything!"

"Sure," the first said flatly. Sevince Vensvin didn't recognize him, but he was dressed in basic Guard uniform. He didn't know the uniform of the second Irken; he was pretty tall, though, so maybe he was the prison warden.

Laser raised, the guard tapped in a code on the number pad beside Sevince Vensvin's cell, and one of the blue force-field walls dissolved. "The Tallest has requested the assistance of a Vortian without another assignment who has extensive knowledge of the construction of Irken ships. Your file says you helped design the Massive. Correct?"

"Yes sir!" Sevince Vensvin said eagerly, standing as tall as he could without losing balance. A chance to work for the Irken Tallest? It'd be the most interesting thing he'd done since getting arrested. Besides, maybe if he impressed the Tallest enough, he'd be given a pardon and allowed to go free... He'd heard that had happened with a few Vortians. What was the current Tallest like, anyway? He had lost track of Irken news after Tallest Miyuki died.

"All right." The Guard looked up at the second Irken, saluted, and left. Definitely a warden, then. Or a High Guard or something like that. Whatever term Irkens used.

The warden surveyed him coldly, then said, "Come on," and turned and headed down the hall. Sevince Vensvin had to hurry to keep up. The warden's voice was much higher than he'd expected.

"What am I going to be doing, sir?" he asked. "Something on the Massive?"

"No. Have you ever worked on a Spittle Runner before?"

Sevince Vensvin gulped. "No, but I'm familiar with them."

The warden scowled. "Fine," he grumbled. "And I bet you don't know how to get across the galaxy in less than a day, either?"

"Less than a day? That'd take a wormhole drive!" Sevince Vensvin said. "I've got blueprints for one of those."

The warden turned to look at him. "Really? I thought there weren't any working ones."

"This one works." Or so he'd been told.

"Hmm."

They reached a security door, with two Guards standing on each side. Most of the time whenever someone tried to get through, they blocked the door until they scanned the Pak of the person going by, even a fellow Irken. However, they simply saluted the Irken leading Sevince Vensvin, and one even pushed the button to open the door for him. Somehow, Sevince Vensvin doubted even a warden would get that kind of treatment. Maybe a Taller Advisor, then?

Outside, the weather was hot and muggy. Sevince Vensvin sucked in deep, grateful breaths of fresh air; he hadn't been warm in ages, and the Irkens kept the air in the prison facilities so _dry_. It was amazing to be outside again, in the heat and the humidity, after so long.

But the Irken didn't allow him any time to enjoy it. "Hurry up," he snapped, pointing. "My Runner's over there." Indeed, there was a Spittle Runner, black and indigo and sparkling, sitting near the building. It looked out of place next to the dusty prisoner transportation vehicles, their paint faded to grey and light brown in the sunlight.

"_Your_ Runner?" Sevince Vensvin said, confused. "I thought I was supposed to do something for the Tallest."

The Irken shot him a dirty look. "I _am_ a Tallest."

"Oh!" Sevince Vensvin looked at the Irken's feet; he was clearly hovering off the ground. How hadn't he noticed that? "Sorry! I mean, my apologies, Almighty Tallest, sir. I didn't recognize... I mean... we can't really watch the news in prison, see—"

"Shut up," the Tallest said. Sevince Vensvin shut up.

The Tallest unlocked his Spittle Runner, opened the cover of the engine, and said, "Get to work."

"But—"

"I said shut up!"

"Sorry! But I don't have any tools!"

"Oh." The Tallest gave both him and the engine a miffed look, then said, "Wait here," and got in the Runner.

The current Irken Tallest, Sevince Vensvin thought, wasn't very bright. He could easily run off while the Tallest was in the Runner...

Sevince Vensvin turned to do just that, when the door they'd just exited opened and two Guards came outside. He quickly hurried back to where he was standing. Crap. So much for that idea.

The Tallest came back out with a large toolbox. "Here." He dropped it beside Sevince Vensvin. "Is that enough?"

Sevince Vensvin opened the toolbox, scanned over the contents, then looked at the engine and went over the blueprints for the wormhole drive in his mind; he had them memorized perfectly. "Yes, that'll be enough."

"Good." The Tallest moved to the side and watched as he worked.

xxx

If nothing else, the Vortians did work quickly. Only five degrees had been wasted before Prisoner 777 told Purple that he'd finished working on the engine. Purple just hoped it wasn't five degrees too many.

"It should function just fine," 777 said, stepping back. "I've never actually built one of these, but I got the blueprints from someone who has..."

"And this'll take me through a wormhole without any problems?"

"Yeah, theoretically. Like I said, I've never actually made one before."

"Good enough," Purple muttered. He picked up his toolbox (all Spittle Runners came with one, not that Purple had any idea what to do with it himself), put it back in the Runner, and turned again to 777. "If this 'wormhole drive' can really do all that, why aren't they installed in more Irken ships?"

"Er... well, that'd be because the prototype was built by Invader Zim." 777 laughed nervously at Purple's expression, who was sure his eyes were a few sizes bigger than usual. "I know his reputation, Tallest sir, but really, he got this one right. It actually works. He told me he built one into a school bus." 777 paused. "I don't know what a school bus is, but..."

"Fine!" Purple didn't know what a school bus was either. "As long as it works."

"It will! I think."

"It'd better." Purple shut the cover over the engine, turned towards the Guards hanging out by the door into the prison, and said, "Hey, you two! Get over here and put 777 back in his cell."

"H-hey!" Prisoner 777 looked at Purple with shock, his tiny eyes wide. "But I—"

"What? Did you think I was going to take you along?" Purple asked. He didn't wait for an answer; he got in the Runner, shut the door, started up the engine, and took off. He never glanced down as 777 was dragged back into prison.

This wormhole drive had been designed by Zim, huh? Well, if it was approved by a Vortian, Purple figured it was good enough for him. True, it _had_ been "installed" by a prisoner fooling around with the engine, re-arranging it so that it supposedly functioned both as an engine _and_ as a wormhole drive... But, it was too late to worry about that now.

Besides, a certain amount of bravery was considered admirable among Irkens. Even if their interpretation of bravery was seen by the rest of the universe as reckless stupidity. Irkens admired reckless stupidity, too. It weeded out the idiots.

Purple turned on the wormhole drive and entered the coordinates for Earth. The Runner immediately gave him the coordinates of the nearest wormhole; it didn't end directly at Earth, but at a nearby planet, the one Zim had called V-something. Venice? Yeah, Venice sounded about right.

"All right," Purple muttered. He wasn't much of a pilot—that would be Red's forte—but he did know how to point the ship in the right direction and stick it in autopilot. "Zim, this stupid drive of yours had better work. If it kills me, you're dying too, you know." Why was he talking to someone who wasn't even there? He wasn't that crazy. Yet. Purple took a deep breath. "Well, let's get going."

He pulled out a couple more Sintillate candies (if ever there was a day when Purple needed them, this was it) and turned on the autopilot to let it take him through the wormhole.

The last thing he felt was the start of the sugar rush, before a great blue-violet spiral of light opened up before him, and sucked him through and out of reality.

xxx

If Gir was conscious of the gristly scene just down the hall, he certainly didn't show it. After all, he was content stacking all the broken pieces.

Pieces of what, he wasn't quite sure; they were darkish pink, stained with deeper red spots, but felt smooth, almost slick and glassy. When Gir held them up to the light, he could just barely see through them. They might've been pieces of a bowl or a plate, except they were a bit too round. They were fun to stack, though. Gir had made twelve stacks of them so far.

Humming to himself, Gir wiped another piece clean of the green liquid on it—Master was leaking a lot, Gir remembered, but the computer said he was taking care of it and told Gir to go away—and started on his thirteenth stack. Then, quietly, he started singing as he worked, a single word: "Doom, doom, de-doom doomy doom..."

It had been literally years since Gir had sung the song, but he still considered it his magnum opus. Well, he would if he had any idea what "magnum opus" meant. He actually associated the phrase with penguins.

Gir didn't know why he'd decided to sing it again today. Perhaps because, somehow, the Doom Song was oddly appropriate now.

Gir was momentarily distracted from his singing when a chicken ran into the room. "Hi Millie!" Gir squealed. Millie bawked in fear and fled from the room again. But seeing the chicken reminded Gir of something. "Oh yeah." He looked down at the piece in his hands. "Issa egg shell."

Behind Gir was a pile of eggs taller than him, and nearly as tall as his master, all coated in dark green blood. Gir had been sifting, slowly, very very slowly, through the pile for about half an hour now. He'd found many broken egg shells, and many... innards of the eggs that Gir didn't dare to touch. Some things were too revolting even for his questionable tastes.

So far, in the entire pile, he'd yet to find a single healthy, unbroken egg.

Cheerfully oblivious to the emergency operation going on down the hallway (it was easy for Gir to forget about it, now that his master had fallen silent), Gir continued to entertain himself by taking pieces of Irken egg shells and stacking them, in neat little piles.

"Doo-de-doomy-doo... doom."

xxxxx


	8. Emergency Lights

A/N: You know what? I like cliffhangers. But I like posting the chapters that come after cliffhangers, too, which is good news for everyone involved. So here it is.

Do let me know what you think! Reviews, comments, questions all appreciated! Thank you very much, and enjoy the chapter.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Emergency Lights

xxx

A story from the Tracts of Slark, the holy text of an ancient Irken religion: _**First came the world, and then came the people**__; this happened before the world was known as Irk and the people were known as Irken. In this time, we were alone._

_**Next came the water, the great cold lakes**__; this happened before the water burned. In this time, we were no longer alone, and we were all Tallest._

_**Last came the god of the waters, Slark, who once ruled over us**__; this happened before we rose up as a unified civilization. In this time, we were no longer all Tallest, and we were virtuous._

_**In this time when we were virtuous, Slark filled us with pain, for the virtuous always suffer**__; in this time we were tied to Slark, and thus to the waters, for that was where He dwelt. When we were filled with pain, only Slark could deliver us from our suffering, so we would seek Him in the waters, and our pain would burn away, and we would die._

_**However, the Youngest Tallest found a way to sever our ties to the waters and to end our suffering**__; but our other Tallest, who were few, for we were no longer all Tallest, warned us that this way to sever the ties would turn us evil. We could either choose to be evil, or to be virtuous._

_**We chose to be evil**__; thus with the Youngest Tallest as our guide, we severed our ties to the water and to Slark, and ended our suffering. In this time, we were no longer virtuous, and we were alone._

_**This was when our world was named Irk, which means to annoy, to anger, and to do evil**__; this was when our people were named Irken, the agents of Irk, and thus the agents of evil. By shunning our god Slark, we have never had to burn in the waters to remove our pain again, for the evil, unlike the virtuous, do not feel pain._

_**This is why we are proud to be evil.**_

xxx

Purple had never before seen anything like the inside of the wormhole.

It was like a tunnel made of hazy cloudy smoke, grey and blue and throwing off sparks of energy. Purple clung to the seat of his chair with both hands and let the autopilot handle everything. He hoped his Spittle Runner knew what it was doing because he had no idea where this wormhole ended, much less how to escape it.

Zim had invented the drive that took Purple through this tunnel. So, he had seen this as well, hadn't he? The Tallest had certainly never known that Zim was up to such things; they'd never heard about any wormhole drive. How much else had Zim done that they didn't know about since he'd been exiled to Earth?

If Purple didn't reach Zim soon, he might never find out.

A light emerged from the haze of the tunnel; as the Runner flew through the smoke, the light formed into a neon blue-green spiral. The Runner shuddered as it approached the spiral, passed through with an ominous hum, and was free of the wormhole. A star loomed large in the view screen, and far off a couple of planets were silhouetted against the light. Still on autopilot, the Spittle Runner turned towards one of these distant points; that had to be Earth, Purple assumed.

Zim had made his last transmission nine degrees ago. Purple hoped he wasn't too late.

xxx

"Requesting permission to land."

"Huh?"

"Land, computer. This is Tallest Purple. Can I land in Zim's base or not?"

"Oh." A very, very long silence. "Yeah."

Purple didn't find the pause promising—and he wasn't particularly comforted by the scene he saw half a degree later, when he'd landed in Zim's hangar. Only a few emergency lights were on, and the background thrum of power surging through the base was completely absent. There was no enthusiastic little Zim to greet him; not even Gir was around.

"Computer!" Purple shouted. "Where's Zim?"

There was no reply. "Computer?"

The base was eerily silent. Quickly, Purple removed his gauntlets, his hover-belt, his torso- and skirt-armor, and sprinted to the lift in his shirt and underskirt. The lift didn't react when he pushed the button and his verbal commands were worthless, so Purple pried open the doors with his Pak-legs and used them to climb down the shaft. He didn't know what it meant that none of the power was on, but it couldn't be good.

Every level of Zim's base was the same: soundless and lightless. Purple pulled open the lift door to each level, looked into the hallways as far as the emergency lights allowed, and then moved on. Where was Zim? Was it possible he'd contacted Purple from somewhere other than his base?

Or perhaps the power was all off because it wasn't necessary any more?

Purple was deep underground before he found any sign that he wasn't alone in the base; something softly glowing blue around a corner. He stepped out of the lift shaft and retracted his Pak-legs. "Zim?"

The light came around the corner. "Hiii!" It was that defective SIR Unit. Purple had seen its glowing optics and panels.

He sighed. Better than nothing. "Gir, where's Zim?"

"Hmm?" Gir glanced around a bit, as if searching for Zim. It even looked at the ceiling before looking back at Purple and smiling. "You wants somma my beef?"

Purple stared at the robot. "Gir, your master. Where is he?"

"You can't have my beef!" Gir said stubbornly. "_I am_ the chief of the mini-tires! All the beef comes to me for their lovin'!" It made a strange sign with its arms. "Respec' da cowz!"

"Gir, cut that out!"

Gir suddenly turned its head, as if it heard something. "My peoples is callin'," it said solemnly. With a wild giggle, it activated its rocket mode, flew narrowly around Purple, and jetted up the lift shaft.

"Hey!" Purple shouted angrily. "Get back here, you stupid... um..."

Purple completely forgot what he was about to say, because he'd just glanced down and noticed the trail Gir had dripped behind itself. Blood. Purple gulped. Well, now he knew how to find Zim...

He started following the trail.

It was a long time before Purple finally saw something different—around a corner, just beneath one of the emergency lights, a small, huddled mass on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of blood. "Zim?!" It looked too small to be Zim. But, not too small to be part of Zim's remains. Braced for the worst, Purple ran up beside the form and crouched down.

No, it wasn't Zim. It was a single egg, perfectly spherical and meticulously cleaned of blood, cradled on a small pile of eggshells, gleaming innocently in the sickly yellow-green emergency light. Now Purple could see that to the very edge of the emergency light's range, the floor was scattered with small stacks of shattered eggs. This was the only whole one.

Anger surged up through his chest. After all this, there was only one egg? Couldn't Zim do anything right?! Furiously, Purple snatched up the egg and stood, not even noticing the green blood staining his skirt. If Zim wasn't dead yet, Purple was going to kill him.

Purple heard Zim before he saw him—or, rather, heard what was being done to him. He heard the clicks and snaps of moving metal, and then saw the light around a bend in the hall. He jogged up to the light, and saw that this hall still had full electricity; power hummed healthily in the walls, like electrical blood, and every light was blazing in stark white. When he saw what was in the hall, he gasped and clutched the egg against him so tightly that his fingers started trembling.

Like the victim of a mad experiment, spread out on the floor with his skin and exoskeleton peeled back to reveal his innards, was Zim. He wasn't conscious—might not have even been alive—his eyes were shut tight. But, still, the metal arms moved back and forth inside him. They wouldn't still be working if Zim was already dead, would they?

The sight had completely sucked the anger out of Purple. He walked unsteadily up to Zim, avoiding the surgical arms—why wasn't Zim in the med bay? Had there not been time to get him there?—and sank down in the nearest chair. (It was so short that he was sitting with his knees bent up to shoulder-height, but he barely even noticed.)

"Zim?" he said quietly, and then, looking up at the metal arms, "Computer?" Neither acknowledged him.

Careful to stay out of the arms' way, Purple leaned forward and pulled up one of Zim's eyelids. He sighed with relief. There was still a faint shine behind them, not just a murky darkness. The waters hadn't claimed Zim yet, he first thought—but that was an old-fashioned, ancient idea; in modern times it was the Void, Zim hadn't gone to the Void yet. Then he wondered why he cared what it was called. Death is death is death. And Zim wasn't dead yet.

Looking closer at the metal arms, Purple realized that they were no longer scalpels and blades. Most had needles, tiny spools of surgical thread, staplers. They weren't taking Zim apart anymore; they were fixing him, putting him back together.

Taking that as a good sign, Purple said, "Computer? What's Zim's condition?"

It didn't respond for a moment, and then snapped, "_Delicate_. Very delicate. No distractions right now."

"All right, sor-ry!" Purple said. He leaned back from Zim, muttering, "It looked like you were almost done to _me..._"

The arms continued working in the silence. "I _am_ almost done, Tallest Purple," the computer finally said. "But Master lost a lot of blood and I can't really fix that, y'know. We don't have any spare blood or anything."

"Oh." Purple looked at the floor, all the shining green liquid on the metal panels, and suppressed a shudder. "Yeah."

"So there's not much more I can do," the computer said. "Unless..." The metal arms stopped for a moment. "Hey, you're really tall."

"Uh, yeah? I'm the Tallest?" Purple said. "Hey, why did you stop working?"

"You've probably got plenty of blood to spare, right?" the computer went on. "And Master's really tiny. You won't miss that little blood."

"What?! You can't give my blood to Zim!" Purple said, shocked. "Won't that make him turn into me?"

"Actually, that's a common misconception. It doesn't really work like that," the computer said. "They've been doing blood transfers like this on Firstaidia for thousands of eras."

Purple hadn't known that. He'd heard since he was a smeet that putting your blood in someone else made them your clone, just like attaching your Pak to someone else; it's putting your DNA in their system, so wouldn't their body start using that DNA to remake their cells? Apparently not. You learn something new every day...

"C'mon, please?" the computer whined. "Master's gonna die if you don't, and then he'll be mad at me."

"Okay, okay, fine! Then do it! Just get it over with fast."

"Yay!"

The metal arms started up again and doubled their pace, sewing and stapling Zim shut. One arm separated from the rest, holding two needles, with a narrow tube and a pump connecting them together. Purple held as still as possible as the computer stuck one needle between his left shoulder and his neck. It stuck the other needle in the same place on Zim. A tingling spread along Purple's left arm, and the skin around the needle started turning numb. Probably a good thing. "How long is this going to take?"

"About a half hour. Don't talk, it'll jiggle the needle out."

Well, great. Purple wished he remembered what an hour was, but at least he only had to sit here for half of one. He shifted his grip on the egg and then tried not to move again.

Reminded of the egg, several thoughts occurred to Purple at once; the first was that Zim had done something useful. Assuming that this egg wasn't going to hatch into a smeet just as defective as Zim, he'd just made an honest, valuable contribution to the betterment of the Irken Empire. Even if there was only one, he'd done something to help keep the empire from splitting apart, created an Irken to help fill the gap between the tall and the short.

He'd done something right, and he might die because of it.

The second thought Purple had was that this egg wasn't just Zim's, but his as well. Purple was a... a... a what was the word? Oh, well—a _parental unit_ to this egg. He didn't quite know how to see the egg as his _offspring_; it was, quite literally, an alien concept to Irkens. He knew the word, but the closest comparison he could make was that the egg held his clone; a half-clone of him and half-clone of Zim, with their blood and genes inside it. It was a strange feeling, knowing that in a way, he was holding the egg of _himself_.

The final thought he had was that he really, really didn't want to see Zim die. No—more than simply not wanting to watch him die, Purple honestly wanted Zim to _live_. To just live. When had that changed?

Purple didn't remember. Maybe when he'd heard Zim's screams, accusing him of murder one second and begging him for help the next. Maybe when he'd realized that he and Zim had actually produced an egg, a half-clone, together.

Or maybe it was simply because Zim really _was_ dying. In Purple's mind, any Irken who was willing to die for their empire, deserved to live for their empire.

As Purple gave his blood to Zim, he did the only other thing he could think of to help.

Not making an audible sound, barely moving his lips, Purple murmured, "Almighty Slark, god of water and death—I, Almighty Tallest Purple, pray to You. Er, to _Thee_. Whatever." He paused to think out his next words, now that he'd hopefully caught the attention of an omnipotent omniscient immortal force. "Okay, I don't really believe all that supernatural trash in Your myths, but I _am_ a Tallest, and the Tallest were supposed to be religious gurus or something like that twenty thousand eras ago, so I thought this'd work. That doesn't mean I believe in You." Not many Irkens knew that about the origin of their leaders; Red and Purple had gotten a quick history course on the title of Tallest on their first day. They'd both found it pretty boring.

"Okay, so I want You to... to save Zim. All right? I mean, not save him, since You usually save Irkens by dunking them in hydroxylic acid. I think.. Just don't come get him. Don't make him die. Got it? That's it. Just one little Irken." Purple doubted that Slark (if He existed) would do a favor like that for nothing. "Uh... if You do, I'll stop doing evil stuff for ten days. No killing, conquering, snacking, or dancing. Deal?"

There was no holy light signaling that Purple's prayer had been answered. That was fine, since he still didn't think that Slark existed. "Okay, deal."

Of course, Purple didn't plan on keeping the promise at all. As soon as he was sure that Zim either was going to make it or was dead, he'd be upstairs and into Zim's snacks.

Irkens were self-professed evil incarnate and proud of it. But that didn't mean they couldn't make appeals every once in a while to mythical gods. There's no harm in doing a necessary good to promote the greater evil.

xxx

Zim's mind snapped back on long before he felt like he was in any condition to move. Or even open his eyes. He hoped his Pak was filtering air for him (he couldn't tell yet) because he wasn't about to do so himself.

Status check: Zim was alive. That was quite important. Was he paralyzed? He twitched his feet, his fingertips. If his outer extremities could move, so could everything else. What about antennae? He wiggled his left antenna and felt it brush the ground. Good. He wiggled his right and didn't feel anything. Eh... good enough. That was normal for his right antenna... But, never mind for now.

Everything was still attached and relatively functional; now for specifics. His abdomen burned like someone had ripped him open, dumped in a tub of water, and sewn him back up. On the plus side, he didn't feel the jagged pressure of something inside him that shouldn't be there, that enormous mass crushing him from the inside out...

He couldn't remember exactly what had happened. Just that _something_ inside him had cracked, and shattered. The eggs, he figured, were just as squished by him as he was by them. Something had broken and stabbed him from the inside, knives digging deep in his heart and his squeedilyspooch, and that was the last thing he really remembered.

He knew, vaguely, that he'd commanded the computer to do something, but he couldn't remember what it had done. He knew, vaguely, that he had managed to implement his revenge and call the Tallest, but he couldn't remember what he had said.

Something brilliant, undoubtedly. For every word out of Zim's mouth was sheer genius.

He had to move eventually. Zim cracked his eyes open—to his relief, he could breathe easily for the first time in weeks—and carefully pushed himself up on his elbows.

His eyes shot wide open in shock. Sitting above him, staring boredly into space, was Tallest Purple. The killer himself. For a moment, words failed Zim. No Irken phrase could possibly express the emotions that shot through him. So he resorted to the best human equivalent he could think of, and croaked, "You fucking bastard of... of shit!"

Truly a scathing insult.

Purple's head snapped around to stare at Zim, and then he broke into a wide grin. "You're not dead!" To Zim's shock, Purple scooped him up in a tight hug. "You're delirious, but that's okay! You're _not dead!_"

"Ow ow _ow!_ Leggo!" Zim shouted, squirming. "Body sensitive! _Pain!_"

"Sorry!" Purple said, quickly crouching on the floor to set Zim down. It was the first time a Tallest had ever made a sincere apology in Zim's hearing. Zim didn't even notice.

He used his Pak-legs to ease himself into a sitting position, clutching his aching abdomen—he was half-naked and covered in stitches, he noticed—and glared up at Purple. "What are you doing in my base? Making sure your treacherous scheme worked? Huh?"

"'Treacherous scheme'?" Purple gave Zim a puzzled look. "You mean the eggs? That's not really treacherous, Zim..."

"_Lies!_" Zim winced. Shouting hurt his chest, but at least he was able to shout again. "Don't play naive! I know exactly what you were really up to."

Purple looked annoyed. "Really. Do enlighten me."

"Ha! You can't fool me into thinking that this 'secret mission' of yours wasn't really a plan to kill Zim. I knew it all along!"

"Oh, really?" Purple gave Zim a disgusted look. "If you 'knew' this, then why did you fall for it?"

"I was playing along!"

"For the love of Irk," Purple snapped. "Could you try not to be _this_ stupid? Why in the Firmament would I want to kill you when I need you to make eggs?! Which, by the way, you only managed to make ONE of." Purple held up a pinkish sphere.

"Whuh?" Zim stared at the egg. He had really made one? An actual egg? A living being? Zim had created a _life_. He, all by himself (completely forgetting Purple's contribution), had caused something living to come into existence. How could anyone say that Zim was worthless now, when he had accomplished no less an astounding feat as taking _nothingness_ and using it to form the egg that would become an Irken?

A slow, greedy smile crossed Zim's face. "My egg! Gimme!" He got unsteadily to his feet and stretched out his hands towards the egg, which Purple jerked out of his reach.

"No way! What do _you_ want with it?" Purple said. "Besides, it's _my_ egg."

"Don't be a fool! It's _my_ egg, I made it." Zim got on his Pak-legs to try to reach the egg.

"Hey, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have been able to make it," Purple said, holding Zim back with one hand and the egg away from him with the other. "It's as much my egg as it is yours."

"As if I'd let _you_ claim it," Zim snarled, trying to push past Purple's hand. "Never! Not after you tried to murder me!"

"Would you stop saying that? I don't even know _how_ you got half-killed," Purple said angrily. "Why would I try to kill you and then come all the way to this dirt-ball to give you enough blood to keep you alive?"

Zim actually stopped struggling for a moment. "You did not."

Purple pulled back the hand he'd been holding Zim with, and tugged the collar of his shirt to the side to reveal a small circle of skin slightly darker green than the surrounding area, a puncture wound. "I did," he said. "And no, that doesn't mean you're going to turn into a clone of me. I already checked."

Zim had stopped listening. He reached up to touch his own shoulder; there, just next to his neck, a sensitive spot. There _had_ been a needle. He retracted his Pak-legs and simply stood with his hand over the place where he'd received Purple's blood, numb with shock.

Purple sighed irritably. "_Now_ do believe—hey!"

Zim had latched himself around Purple's lower legs. "Thank you thank you thank you my Tallest you have no idea how much this means to me I'll never ever _ever_ forget what you did this is the best thing that's ever happened to me—"

Purple wobbled. "Zim, the egg!"

Too late; the egg slipped out of Purple's two-fingered grip and fell towards the hard metal floor.

Luckily, one of the computer's metal arms grabbed it before it hit. "If you don't mind, Almighty Tallest," the computer said, "I'll be taking this now. Before someone _breaks_ it."

"Hey!" Zim said, not letting go of Purple's legs. "You can't take my egg!"

"Yeah I can. Tallest Purple ordered me to take any eggs that you have and put them in the SLP chamber."

Oh. Well, that made sense. The egg could hatch safely in a tube in the standard lifeform protection chamber. "Good work. Put my egg in the best tube!"

"All the tubes are the same, Master." The computer retracted its arm into the wall.

Purple pried Zim off him. "That egg had better not have inherited your... moron-ness," he muttered. "Really, Zim, I just gave you enough blood so you wouldn't die. It's not a big deal."

He didn't understand, Zim thought. He couldn't. After all, it was his blood, he'd had it his entire life. But to Zim, it was something completely different.

He had achieved something that only one in a hundred billion Irkens could ever hope to achieve: Zim now had Tallest's blood marching through his veins.

xxx

It was a really good thing Purple didn't believe in Slark, or else he might feel guilty or something about snacking so soon after his promise not to for ten days. As it was, he didn't regret it at all.

And Zim had some good snacks, too. Purple had no idea how he got them, but they were great. He and Zim had gone up to the kitchen of Zim's base and worked their way through half a bag of pretzels (with extra salt and cheese flavoring) from Tower of Shlump. There was no way Zim should have been able to afford snacks from Shlump; it was one of the most expensive, upscale restaurants on Foodcourtia. Purple decided not to question Zim's methods; he'd hate to be reminded that these snacks were being financed by illegal methods.

As they ate, Zim explained (with a great deal of unasked-for help from his computer, since he couldn't tell a story in any sort of logical manner by himself) how exactly he'd ended up almost dead. Purple listened quietly until the computer gave him the exact number of eggs Zim had made.

He almost choked on a mouthful of pretzels. "Twenty-six?!" He swallowed hard, then said, "That's crazy! No wonder you almost died. Layers can only do seven or eight at once."

Zim couldn't care less about what Purple was actually saying. "I made twenty-six smeets?! I'm amazing!"

"You only really made one, Zim. The others died."

"Lies! Twenty-six!"

"Master probably wouldn't have been able to handle eight, either," the computer pointed out. "He's not big enough."

Zim scowled but didn't comment. Purple figured there wasn't much Zim could say to counter that, anyway.

"So, if Zim ever tries to have eggs again, it'll end up another fiasco like this?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"So. That's the end of that." Purple sighed. Well, wasn't that wonderful. So much for his grand scheme to single-handedly (with Zim's assistance) save the Irken Empire from falling apart.

What had ever made Purple think that he could pull off such a crazy scheme, anyway? He wasn't quick enough to react to a big problem like this—a threat of the division of the empire. He wasn't smart enough to do it. Hells, he wasn't even a real Tallest! Not like Red was. Maybe he should have just kept trying to get Red to help after all...

"My Tallest."

Purple looked up; Zim was looking at him seriously, eyes narrowed. "_I_ would never quit _my_ mission," he said, as if he were issuing a challenge, daring Purple to be the one to give up.

"Yeah, and you'll never be able to complete it either," Purple said. "Did you think of that? You're not gonna be lucky enough to survive another bunch of eggs. Especially if you end up with twenty-six again."

"Actually, I think that was a one-time problem," the computer said. "You danced with Master when his body was still adjusting to the layer hormones he was starting to produce, Almighty Tallest, so he released too many eggs for fertilization. Shouldn't happen again. Probably. Maybe."

"See?" Zim said. "I can do this mission! That proves it!"

"No, it _doesn't_," Purple said testily. "And in any case you can't do it unless I dance with you, which I'm not doing without proof that it won't kill you."

Zim frowned. "Clearly, even now you do not yet comprehend the absolutely astounding astoundingness of my skills." He sighed wearily at what he clearly thought to be a great injustice. "So, a new plan is in order, is it?"

"New plan?" Purple said skeptically.

"Of course! If a plan is unsuccessful the first time, then a new plan is needed." Zim put on a thoughtful face. "Hmm..."

Purple wondered what sort of plan Zim could come up with. Nothing good, undoubtedly.

"The problem here is an issue of... height, yes?" Zim said. He slowly grinned. "However, _you_ don't have that problem."

"Where are you going with this?"

Zim chuckled. "Perhaps this time around, I should be the fertilizer and you should be the layer, my Tallest. Don't you think?"

"No way, Zim. Not gonna happen. Do I have to go through the list again?" He started ticking off reasons on the fingers of one hand. "One, everyone would notice if I had eggs, and this is a secret mission. Two, I have a reputation to keep up, and you don't. Thr... oh." Purple had run out of fingers. "Um. In any case, we already got surgery once. We can't just switch around our genitalia every thirty days for the rest of this mission. That'd hurt."

"Oh. Huh. Yeah." Zim grabbed another handful of pretzels and shoved them in his mouth while he thought. "Den, de ony ofson..." He swallowed and tried again. "The only option would be for me to... not be having the height problem. But there's no way to change that. Is there?" He kept his head down as he asked the question, but he looked up at Purple, half hopefully.

"No, of course there isn't..." Purple glanced at Zim's pretzels and trailed off, thinking. "Actually..."

Zim jumped up to stand on his chair and lean over the table. "_Actually?_ Actually WHAT?!"

Looking at Zim's pretzels had reminded Purple that he got his snack money from "exports" of hydroxylic acid. The black market.

"There's no _legal_ way to change someone's height," Purple said. "But there are black market surgeons who can do exoskeletal extensions. They're really, really, really against the law, though. Probably like forty laws."

Zim stared at him. "So there is a way?"

"Yeah, a _bad_ way," Purple said.

Zim leaped on the table and raised his fists in triumph. "There _is_ a way! All hope is not lost!" He cackled victoriously.

"I said it's illegal!" Purple sighed and waited for Zim to stop laughing. When he did, he went on. "Look, Zim. You're negative twelve units tall and that's not really going to change even if you _do_ get exoskeletal extensions, because that's just in your genes. You'll look taller, but you won't actually _be_ any taller. And nobody's gonna treat you any taller because everyone knows who you really are."

"Because it's not in my blood?" Zim asked.

"Yeah, it's not in your blood."

"But, if I had tallness in my blood AND in my body, then I really would be tall?"

"Er..." He had no idea why Zim was asking. "Yeah, I guess."

Zim chuckled again. "I see..."

Purple thought for a moment about what he was suggesting. True, the process _was_ illegal, and Purple would hate to see Zim gain any undeserved height. But it wasn't as if Zim could use the height for any real purpose, since he was still exiled.

And in the end, the most important thing was saving the empire, wasn't it? Which wouldn't happen if Zim couldn't grow eggs.

"I guess an extension thingy wouldn't really be illegal if a Tallest authorized it," Purple said grudgingly. "And you wouldn't get really tall, Zim, just enough not to die. Maybe, fifty or sixty units, tops. Hey! Are you listening to me?"

Zim was gaping at Purple, jaw dropped and eyes wide. Okay, with his eyes like that, he _had_ to be hyperventilating. "Zim? Calm d—"

Purple was cut off as he found himself once again trapped in an enthusiastic hug. "Thank you my Tallest I can barely believe you'd do that for me first the blood and now this you've gotta be the best Tallest in the history of the universe this is the best day of my life I don't even know what to... to..."

Purple gingerly tried to pry Zim from off his neck. "Um, Zim? Are you okay?" He'd fallen completely silent.

But Zim was just fine. He was simply, for the first real time in his life, at an utter and complete loss for words.

xxxxx


	9. Fat Ass

A/N: After chapter 9, in my opinion, the next two chapters are a little slow. That's while I'll be doing an extra update! Next Friday, on the 28th, I'll be doing my regular update for chapter 10, and then on Sunday, March 30th, I'll post chapter 11. Gets both chapters out of the way quicker, and I can commemorate the day Zim was first aired. Score.

Anyway, enjoy chapter 9. Please remember to review and let me know what you think. Thank you!

**VERY IMPORTANT EDIT:** Um, yeah, it seems there are no dividers between the scenes. See, when I type out the chapters, I always, always put dashes between the scenes, so that, y'know, people can tell when there's a time skip of, say, five hours. Or a week. But I just looked at the fic, and I see nada. Usually, there are, at LEAST, dashes between the author's note and the words "In Short Supply," and then more dashes between the chapter name and the start of the fic. But now they aren't there. Do any of you still see dashes? Have they been doing that all along?! Because if they have, I am so so so sorry I didn't notice and that all of you have had no indication of where one scene ends and another begins. (And damn, that was probably confusing. I must look like an idiot.) Please, when you review, tell me, have the dashes been missing all along? Or did FFnet just suddenly deside to go through and strip them all? I hope it's the latter. Man, I feel stupid. Henceforth, all dashes are to be replaced with something that won't be stripped from the text. I guess I'll go with what I do in my Kingdom Hearts fics and divide scenes with X's, since FFnet won't strip those

Maaan, and now I gotta go all the way back to chapter 1 and fix all that...

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Fat Ass

xxx

A passage from the data downloaded into all Irken Paks at birth: _Category: Irk and Irkens. Subcategory: Biology. Sub-subcategory: Smeet development._

_As you are no doubt aware, for the next half-era, you will be referred to as a "smeet." With a Pak, the average Irken will live four to five eras, or forty to fifty Irken years. You will continue growing for a little past an era, at which point you'll reach your final height. However, before Irkens had Paks, you would not be considered a smeet after a half-era, but a middle-age adult; you would have stopped being a smeet within the first few days of life._

_Before the ingenious smeet facilities were built, Irkens would mate and lay eggs on their own. (Note: Do not try this, as Irkens today are not equipped to make eggs and you'll probably hurt yourself.) The eggs would grow inside a layer for twenty-eight to thirty days before being laid, and then hatch within a day. At that point, a true smeet will emerge—a slug-like larva with soft, fleshy protection over its undeveloped internal exoskeleton, no legs, sightless eyes, and stubby arms. In fact, that's what you looked like a few days ago._

_This "real" smeet will remain a larva for about five days before its fleshy protection hardens into a pod, and within a day from that it will emerge as a true Irken. A long time ago, at that point, the Irken was considered an adult. Today, though, that just means the Irken is ready to be released from its birthing tube, given a Pak, and trained. That's where you are now. And today, since all Irkens spend their actual smeet phase in a tube, they're now called smeets when they wake up for the first time._

_You'll be a smeet for five years before being considered an adult. Think, hundreds of eras ago, at five years old, you'd probably be dead! Only the luckiest, wisest, smartest Irkens lived to be an era; that's why we originally began following our Tallest, since they obviously had lived long enough to reach their full height. Today, we do it just because we know they're better than us. You'll learn more about that in Subcategory: Politics._

xxx

As it so happened, Purple knew of a guy who knew another guy who was in touch with an alien who'd made acquaintance with a couple of Irkens who had once done business with an unnamed source who may have the contact information of someone who could have at some point picked up the knowledge of how to do an exoskeletal extension. This someone, who went by the name of "Nail" on the black market, said that they would be just thrilled to do a job for the Almighty Tallest Purple, so long as it didn't involve doing anything that would end up with Tallest Red no longer being tallest.

"What, are you crazy?" Purple said. "I can't overthrow my co-ruler! Who'd rule the empire when I'm on vacation?"

"I... hmm. I hadn't thought of it that way," Nail said. Whoever Nail was, they didn't reveal their identity lightly. Nail was in a dark room, only the slight glow of a computer illuminating their eyes. The image had been grayscaled, though, so Purple couldn't even identify Nail's eye color, and they had modified their voice so that it was ridiculously deep. "Then—if it's not impudent of me to ask, my Tallest—if the exoskeletal extension is not for yourself, then on whom shall I be operating?"

"You'll find that out when you get here." Purple wasn't going to risk saying over a transmission like this that he wanted the operation done on Zim; Nail might be recording it, or someone could listen in. "This whole thingy is top secret—even from Red. And that means you'll have to go a bit of a ways to get here."

"Anything for my Tallest."

"Good." And Purple had thought everyone involved in the black market was a dangerous rebel out to disrupt the Irken government, bring down the Tallest, and put in a new horrible political system. Like democracy. Who in Irk's name had thought up a crazy idea like democracy, anyway? "Hey, Nail—what do you think about democracy?"

"Er... I don't think I follow, my Tallest." Nail sounded confused. "I've... never really given it any thought..."

"See that you don't." Purple called up the coordinates for Zim's base and sent them to Nail. "This is where you'll come to do the operation. Got it?"

"Yes sir." Nail's eyes glanced sideways, probably at another screen to read the coordinates. "Unfortunately, my ship isn't the best, my Tallest. It will take me nine or ten days to reach Earth. And, if I may ask another question, why are you in Zim's base?"

Purple almost flinched. "Uh." He hadn't expected to deal with that question until Nail actually arrived. Now what? "That is... hey, how do you know where Zim's base is, anyway? In fact, how do you know where _Earth_ is? No one below Rank Steel should have access to that information. Are you Rank Steel, Nail?" Doubtful; Rank Steel was for Military Low Commanders or Invaders on up to Taller Advisors and the Tallest. No one with such a high rank would risk their livelihood doing illegal surgeries. "How'd you learn that? Huh?"

"Ergh!" Nail's grayed-out eyes went wide. "I mean... I was... You see... eh... That is, I'll be on Ea—I-I mean, I'll be at these coordinates in no more than ten days. You have my word!" Nail quickly cut the connection.

Well, that had gone well. And now Purple had a small amount of blackmail on a black market operative who hadn't even thought of threatening to blackmail Purple in return.

Zim, who had been sitting out of sight with stern instructions to _not under any circumstances_ say a _single_ thing, smirked at Purple. "It would seem that I am not quite as hated as you would lead me to believe," he said smugly.

"Oh, really? And why's that?"

"Simple!" Zim pointed at the screen. "You said that only Rank Steel know where I am. Surely that's to prevent adoring fans from interfering with my work, right?"

"No, it's not," Purple said flatly. "It's because the entire empire hates you and would come here and kill you if they knew where you were."

"Ha! Then the fact that you hid this information means that you're protecting Zim from this fate!"

Actually, it was because the Tallest preferred leaving Zim stranded on a distant dirt-ball to having a few thousand Irkens rush out to a planet ignorant of the Irken Empire to do the job. But, for once, Purple didn't feel like trying to crack through Zim's thick ego. It was about the only thing the little defect had going for him anymore. In any case, they had more important matters to worry about now.

"My Tallest, Master?" the computer said. "You probably wanna get down to the standard lifeform protection chamber. You said you wanted to know when the egg hatches, right?"

Matters like that.

"Yes! Take Zim to his egg!" Zim leaped out of his seat and sprinted towards the lift, with Purple trailing behind him. "The first of many triumphs on my greatest mission ever!" He went off on that laugh of his as the lift started carrying them down.

"Zim, seriously. Stop laughing like that. It's creepy."

"But it's fun!"

Purple sighed. Really, he was getting to the point where weird things like Zim's laugh didn't bother him nearly as much as they used to. That was why he wanted him to stop. Slark forbid Purple should ever get _used_ to Zim.

xxx

Zim realized that he hadn't been down to the SLP chamber in quite some time. Several of the tubes were broken, and he could have sworn that he heard something scurrying around far away; the chamber was truly vast, so he couldn't see anything way off in the dark. Ah, well. He'd hunt the thing making the noise eventually. It was probably the remains of the cow-human experiment.

He and Purple weren't the first ones down in the chamber. Gir was there as well, sitting next to one of the few lit tubes, wearing a paper something on his head that, if Zim was not mistaken, was supposed to be shaped like a crown. It said "KEENG" in red crayon. "The chicky's wakin' up," Gir said, pointing into the tube. "I'mma name it Bill."

"No, Gir, that's not your chicky. That's my egg, and it's not going to have a stupid name like Bill." Zim grinned proudly at his egg for a moment. Cracks were appearing along the side, and in a moment the smeet inside would be free. What would he name it, anyway? Usually Control Brains assigned names whenever a new Pak was activated, but there were no Brains here to decide the name...

The eggshell split open, and Zim immediately stopped smiling. "Ugh!" He reeled back, raising an arm as if to protect himself from what he saw. "What _is_ that horrible blobby thing?! I didn't make that!" He looked at Purple. "What did you do to it?!"

"Shut up, I didn't do anything," Purple said. "That's what a smeet looks like, Zim. It'll be a normal Irken in a few days."

"That thing?" Zim eyed the "smeet"—a sluggy bag of fatty white flesh with thick green veins, disproportionately huge pinkish-red eyes with a thin film of skin over them, tiny stubby arms, and a vapid, toothless grin. "It's hideous!"

"That's why smeets grow in tubes until they're adult. Honestly, Zim, did they put _anything_ in your Pak when they made you?"

"Yeah, but most of it was wrong. So I deleted it."

"You... _deleted_ it." Purple slowly shook his head in disbelief. "How are you not dead yet?"

"I'm just amazing like that." Zim looked again at the... "smeet," if that's really what it was. "You're sure it will be normal in a few days?"

"_Yes_, Zim."

"I see." He grinned. "Then I'm going to name it. Computer!"

"Whaaat?"

"Is this smeet-blob male or female?"

"Gimme a sec..." A red light scanned the tube. "It's a boy. Congratulations." A small panel over the tube opened up and blue confetti rained out.

Zim waved away the confetti drifting near his face. "A fertilizer, then! Hmm..." He eyed the smeet. It was a rather fat smeet. And growing it had almost killed Zim so it, along with the other eggs, had obviously been far bigger than was reasonable for any egg.

"You're not going to give it a dumb name, are you?" Purple muttered. "Because if you are, I'm overruling anything you say."

"Not at all, my Tallest! It shall be a wholly appropriate name." Zim nodded decisively, and then grinned. He had the perfect name for the overweight smeet. "He shall be named... _Fat Ass!_"

Purple blinked. "_What?_"

"Fat Ass. You know... 'cause that's what he is." Zim chuckled. "It's brilliant."

Purple frowned. "Fataz? Is that even a name?"

"It's a human phrase. But it's fitting."

"Huh." Purple gave the smeet a critical look. "Fataz. Kinda has a nice ring to it. Sure, why not." He shrugged and then headed back to the lifts. "Glad that's over with. Hey, Zim, I'm gonna use your recharge chamber. Don't bother me."

"Yes, my Tallest," Zim said, still looking up at his smeet. Fataz was squirming about a bit in his tube, still blind and still grinning stupidly. Zim wondered if he even had the muscles to stop smiling yet.

"Aww," Gir cooed, both hands pressed against Fataz's tube. "It's so cute."

"No, Gir. Don't encourage him. He's ugly." Zim scowled at Fataz, and muttered, "The next time I see you, you'd better look more like me. Or else I'll... eh... not be very nice to you. And do mean things. Keep that in mind!"

Fataz was still smiling as Zim turned his back on him and left.

xxx

Purple hated standard recharge chambers. They were far too cramped. He and Red had ordered custom-fitted recharge chambers for their personal use, so luckily he didn't have to deal with them often. At least this chamber wasn't fitted for Zim, or else Purple probably wouldn't have been able to get inside.

Once he'd managed to plug his Pak in, he didn't bother to turn the computer screen on; he wanted to think.

This whole exoskeletal extension deal was going to be a huge annoyance. It meant he'd have to fly to the Massive, stay there just a few days, and then fly back to Earth in order to supervise the surgery, dance with Zim again, and _then_ fly back to the Massive once more. That was a lot of traveling, and it'd be hard to explain to Red, too.

Or he could just wait here on Earth until the black market surgeon showed up. That meant he'd also be around when Fataz went through his metamorphosis, so he could make sure he'd get his Pak properly... Purple had figured that the best plan would be for the smeets he made to get their Paks on Earth, and then be taken to Irk for their training. That way, they wouldn't have to be snuck into the smeet facilities and risk being discovered. He'd gotten ten pre-programmed Paks a couple of weeks ago and stored them in his Spittle Runner for his next trip to Earth. Lucky he had.

All Purple had to do was program the name Fataz into one of the Paks, and attach it. Unfortunately, instead of having a personality assigned to him, having the blank Pak meant Fataz would get all the knowledge and history of Irk but have to develop his own personality. A minor issue, something like five percent of the Irken race had received personality-free Paks, anyway. It was the most common and least troublesome defect a Pak could have.

Nine or ten days on Earth with Zim. It couldn't be _too_ bad, could it? Surely so few days wouldn't be that terrible. Right?

Oh, who was Purple kidding? He'd probably have a better time visiting every Hell in the Firmament.

Sometimes he really hated being a Tallest. Probably his least favorite thing in the universe was having responsibility.

xxx

"After Napoleon's disastrous campaign in Russia," the TV documentary droned, "he was exiled in 1814 to the island of Elba..."

Zim chuckled. "Elba." What a stupid name.

Earth-time, it was a little past six in the morning on Tuesday; he'd have to head to the abhorred Joonier Hi Skool soon in a few degrees. He was considering various excuses for why he'd missed school both Friday and Monday. Faking an illness usually worked, if he could think of one he hadn't used recently. Perhaps he could say he'd had herpes over the weekend...

But he couldn't leave for school yet; Tallest Purple was still here, and Zim certainly couldn't leave when his Tallest might need him at any moment.

He wondered how long Purple planned on staying. Of course, Zim would be honored to entertain him as long as he wished. But it would still be nice to know, for example, whether or not Zim would be late to school today.

Zim felt a weight set down beside him on the sofa, and looked over in surprise. "My Tallest! I didn't hear you come up."

"Mm." Purple's eyes were glued to the documentary. "Hey, is there anything on this planet more interesting to do than watch this teevy thing?"

"No, humans do stupid things."

"Too bad." Purple stood up. "'Cause I'm gonna be here until Nail shows up, and you're going to keep me amused." He didn't state it like an order, but a fact. He was the Almighty Tallest of the Irken Empire, and Zim was a loyal Irken who was simply expected to do whatever he could to make sure his leader was pleased and to be happy with that role.

And he _was_ happy. Immediately all concerns about school were wiped clean from Zim's mind, with a simple mental note to think up a better excuse than herpes when he finally got around to attending again. "Er, not _everything_ on Earth is stupid, my Tallest. I mean, yeah, it _is_ stupid, obviously. But it's funny anyway." Zim grinned eagerly. "I could show you around."

Purple gave Zim a considering look, then shrugged. "Fine."

"Excellent! You'll need a disguise first, my Tallest. Computer!"

"What now, Master?"

"Come up with a disguise fitting for an Almighty Tallest! We are going out to laugh evilly at the smelly load of horrible that is humanity!" Zim ran into the kitchen. Where was Gir?

"You realize that doesn't make any sense, right, Zim?" Purple said, looking over the panel that the computer had just pushed in front of him, presumably with a selection of human disguises to choose from. He frowned, pointed at something on the panel, and said to the computer, "This thing's ugly."

"Yeah, but it's waterproof," the computer said.

"Really?" Purple looked at the panel with less disgust. "Is that important on Earth?"

"You wouldn't believe how important!" Zim said. "On this planet, water falls from the sky like rocks during the great dust storms of Chunga!"

"You mean it _rains_ here?" Purple grimaced. "I thought that only happened on wet planets like Vort."

"Earth _is_ a wet planet." Zim shuddered. "Oh, how wet it is. Wait here, my Tallest. I must retrieve my robot." He jumped in the kitchen toilet. "Computer! Take me to Gir!"

"Yeah, yeah..."

Zim couldn't believe the good fortune he had. An opportunity to be all alone with one of the Tallest for ten days! Surely, Tallest Purple would come to see what excellent company Zim made and hold him in higher regard.

After all, Zim _deserved_ to be held in high regard. He had finally come to accept that the Tallest currently had the mistaken notion that he didn't deserve to be an Invader, which he knew very well to be wrong. The only thing for him to do now was try to persuade them otherwise. And Zim could be very persuasive.

He thought that Purple was already starting to see him differently, at least. After all, he'd come to Zim in particular for this mission, hadn't he? Well, sure, that was because of Zim's height, but certainly there had to be other reasons that Purple hadn't informed him of. If height was the _only_ factor, surely there were other Irkens close enough to Zim that they would have sufficed?

Plus, there was the way he'd acted yesterday. When Zim had woken up, the very first thing Purple had done was hug him. A very... unusual action among Irkens. Such close physical contact was typically only found during dances, or between very, very close friends.

Not that Zim minded.

Then there was the fact that Purple had actually given Zim some of his own blood. That practically tied them together forever, didn't it? In Zim's mind, it was as if Purple had put Zim's life on an equal level with his own.

Clearly all this meant that Tallest Purple was already starting to understand how truly important Zim was. Now Zim had an opportunity to show him Earth and prove to him once and for all that this dirt-ball really deserved to be conquered and made a part of the Irken Empire. After that, it would only be a matter of time until he was reassigned as an Invader and asked to continue his conquest of Earth.

The lift stopped, and Zim stepped out, surprised to find himself in the SLP chamber again. "Gir! Where are you?"

"I don't know!" Gir wailed from somewhere in the dark. "I'm lost!" He let out a keen shriek that made Zim's antennae shudder.

"Gir, stop messing around and get over here!"

"Mmkay." Gir wandered into the light, still wearing his paper hat. "The mini-tires lurve me, Master," he informed Zim.

"You can play with your... 'mini-tires' later, Gir. We're going out." Zim snatched off Gir's hat. "Put on your costume and come with me upstairs. Today we show the empire just what we're made of!"

Gir squealed. "We're gonna get naked?!"

"Eh? No." Zim grabbed Gir by the antenna and carried him onto the lift, to make sure he didn't wander off again. "I want you to be on your best behavior today, Gir. We're escorting the Tallest around Earth." He pointed his free hand into the air as the lift began to carry them up. "Prepare yourself! The day of reckoning is NIGH!"

"Oh, I see," Gir said, still dangling by his antenna. "I thought it was Tuesday."

xxx

When the computer had first suggested this disguise to Purple, he'd been hesitant; it didn't look at all like the disguise he usually saw Zim in, with a weird black thing on his head and two contacts. But now that they were actually outside and he could see the other humans, he figured he had the better disguise after all.

Sure, every time Purple saw his reflection, he was momentarily alarmed at what he saw; nearly white skin, with two flabby things sticking out of the sides of his head and a small pointy one in the middle—ears and a nose. At least they were only a hologram, along with the white eyes with the small brown rectangles. Species that didn't have solid eye colors always creeped Purple out. They looked like they had some sort of nasty disease in the middle of their eyeballs or something.

"My Tallest? Is something wrong?"

Purple looked away from his reflection in a window and back at Zim. "No, nothing. It just... takes a while to get used to looking so weird." The clothes didn't help, a huge khaki jacket the computer had called a "trench coat," and a red "cowboy hat."

Zim nodded. "I understand, my Tallest. It's often a shock, seeing yourself so horribly disfigured for the first time. The shock wears off, though." He turned to face the street. "So, this is an Earth city. Revolting, isn't it?" He gestured out at the humans passing by; the rectangular, rigid buildings; the strange two-toned sky, dark blue above and orange-red below.

"Why does the sky have two colors?" Purple asked.

"Eh?" Zim looked at the horizon, "Oh, that's how sunrise looks here. Sunset too."

"Huh." Purple had never seen the sky do that before.

"Yeah, it'll be a solid color soon," Zim said. "Probably gray or brown."

Purple looked around the street. The Earthen vehicles were certainly strange shapes, but looked like ancient technology. None of the buildings seemed to hold anything interesting; of course, he couldn't read any of the building's signs, but still.

"Do humans have any gladiatorial matches or anything?" Purple would have to find a way to entertain himself for the next few days, after all, and what better way than as a spectator to senseless violence?

"Yeah, they do," Zim said. "But today's a Tuesday. There's no football on Tuesdays."

"Hm." Purple walked past Zim and went down the sidewalk in slow strides to look at the windows and see what was inside each building, searching for something interesting to do. Zim had to jog to keep up, jerking his stupid robot in its green costume along by a leash. Gir seemed to have turned itself off; it was curled up and softly snoring.

Purple hesitated, just a moment, in front of a window lit up with dozens of tiny multicolored light bulbs. There was a funny-shaped plant inside covered in shiny orbs that caught the light. Obviously a decorative tradition on Earth, though Purple couldn't see the point to it. Pretty orbs, though.

Zim looked inside as well, and grinned. "Ooh! That's what we could do!" He sprinted passed Purple. "This way, my Tallest! I have to show you the Evil Santa Memorial."

"The _what?_" Purple followed Zim, throwing one more glance at the pretty orbs and lights before turning away from them.

"Evil Santa Memorial! The humans put it up to recognize all the other humans that the Evil Santa crushed, two years ago. Humans like to think about each other dying, for some reason. It's a wonder they haven't all killed themse... eh..." Zim glanced up at Purple, looking embarrassed, before clearing his throat and quickly changing topics. "Anyway, they put up the memorial because the Evil Santa killed almost three thousand humans. But last year it came back, and killed over _fifty_ thousand." Zim chuckled to himself. "They're expanding the memorial now, I think. And Santa will probably come back this year to kill even _more_ humans, maybe one _zillion_..."

"Good for Santa," Purple said flatly. "Why should I care?"

Zim gave Purple a stunned look. "Why? Why?! Because the Evil Santa is the creation of none other than the great Zim!" Purple figured he had to look surprised, because Zim gave him a sly smirk. "As you can clearly see, my Tallest, despite the fact that I have been conducting my mission alone, I have made great progress towards destroying the humans. Have I not?"

"Er... maybe," Purple said, baffled. Surely Zim wasn't competent enough to actually build something to kill that many beings at once. Okay, yeah, he'd done it a few times by accident, but intentionally? Never. Zim was more inclined to rain doom upon his fellow Irkens than upon an actual enemy.

But, what if he really had built something that had killed so many Earthens at once? Fifty thousand was no great number as far as the empire was concerned, but if the Santa continued to kill more each time it attacked, as Zim said it would... The Irken Empire could very well make use of these "Evil Santas" in their own armada, assuming Zim could reproduce them.

Then again, considering how Tallest Miyuki and Tallest Slark had ended up the last time Zim had been given Inventor duties, Purple doubted it was worth the risk.

"Come!" Zim said, gesturing for Purple to hurry up. "I have much to show you, my Tallest! I trust you will find I had made more progress than you ever expected when you called off my mission."

Seeing as Purple had expected Zim to have made no progress at all, just about anything exceeded expectations. "Why didn't you report any of this stuff to us?"

"I did," Zim said. "The Massive must have had a bad connection if you weren't able to hear my amazing report. You should get it fixed."

Or they'd completely ignored him. "I don't think so, Zim. You probably forgot to mention it."

"Forgot to mention such a triumph as the Evil Santa?" Zim made a twitchy gesture with his free hand, as if swatting back the suggestion. "Never! Though it may have been one of my minor triumphs on this dirt-ball, it is still an invaluable one."

"Minor?" Purple laughed in what he hoped was a condescending way. (He was actually better at that laugh than Red, which he was quite proud of. He celebrated by laughing condescendingly at Red for his inferior laugh, which usually earned him a face-full of empty wrappers.) "If that's minor, then what's major, huh? Discovering a new protection against hydroxylic acid reactions?"

"Paste."

Purple blinked. "Huh?"

"Paste." Zim reached into his Pak as he walked and pulled out a small bottle, labeled in Irken letters, EARTH GLUE. "It completely stops all external allergic reactions to water," he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather on Irk. (Cold, and dry.) "It won't counter-act hydroxylic acid poisoning, though."

Purple snatched up the bottle, inspecting it. "Yeah, well... huh." Did this thing really work? He stuffed the bottle in his Pak; he'd get it checked out when he was back at the Massive. "And I suppose next you're going to tell me that you killed a squad of Planet Jackers?" he said, trying to sneer. He wasn't about to let Zim think he was impressed.

"Er... they're not _dead_," Zim said carefully. "But I did have to beat them up pretty good to get Earth back from them."

Purple stared at Zim. "Please tell me you didn't actually break the Irken/Planet Jacker Treaty."

"Uh..." Zim glanced up and pointed. "There it is! Hey, Gir, wake up." He kicked his robot, which squealed and twitched but didn't get up. "That's the memorial, my Tallest. With a life-size replica of my Evil Santa." He smiled proudly. "Well, actually, the Santa is about twice as big now as it was when they made the replica..."

Purple looked up. And up. His jaw dropped.

Surrounded by circular streets and guarded by the towering, blocky gray Earth buildings was an immense silver brick, covered in words Purple couldn't read; atop that brick was a huge statue in white and red, a blobby monstrosity. It was easily taller than the biggest MegaDoomers, perhaps even approaching the size of a Frontline Battle Mech. It was enormous and insane-looking. It was the absolute image of a weapons-mech of mass destruction. "You made _that?!_"

"Impressive, is it not?" Zim's voice took on that forcibly casual tone, the one he used when he was saying something he thought very important but wanted everyone else to think was an idle comment. "Not that I'd ever assume that I know how to run the empire as well as you, my Tallest, but I'd think you'd be starting to wonder why you ever fired me as an Invader to begin with..."

"Don't be ridiculous," Purple snapped, turning away from the Evil Santa statue and refusing to look at it again. "Now, why exactly did you decide to go endanger our treaty with the Planet Jackers?"

Zim looked at his feet. "They started it."

Purple groaned. He wasn't going to like this. "_That_ is why we fired you."

xxxxx


	10. Fake Porno

A/N: Woohoo, chapter 10. And on Sunday, chapter 11. Yay! I hope you enjoy, and please remember to review!

By the way, does anyone know of any particularly active Livejournal communities I might be able to post this fic on? I'd like to put this on LJ, but there don't seem to be many living Zim communities anymore... sigh. Actually any other places in general that might like this would be nice. Thanks!

Disclaimer: Because I haven't done one in a while and probably should. Along with all things Zim, I also do not own Macintosh, Napoleon Bonaparte and his quotes, _Mein Kampf_, Thanksgiving, the opus that has to do with penguins, Slark (but I don't think anyone else does either), democracy, football, Doritos, or Agent Gourdy and Agent Toadstool. If anyone can figure out where Gourdy and Toadstool are from, kudos to you.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Fake Porno

xxx

Transcript from an audio file recording of a report by Agent Gourdy and Agent Toadstool to the Swollen Eyeball, Sun. Dec. 14, 9:53 PM:

Darkbooty (DB): _Gourdy, Toadstool. A pleasant surprise. We haven't been in contact with you all week._

Gourdy (G): _Yeah, well, I reckon there's a good reason for that, ain't there? This is the only time we can check in, it bein' Sunday and all..._

Toadstool (TS): _The vampires we've been tracking are only inactive on Sunday nights._

DB: _Understandable. However, we don't understand why you haven't been able to call us during the daytime, when the vampires are sleeping._

_(3 seconds silence.)_

G: _Well, shoot my dog! I didn't know ya could put a call through to the Eyeball during day hours. Thought we was a nighttime organization._

DB: _(sighs) Fine, fine. Keep that in mind for future use. You as well, Agent Toadstool._

TS: _Yes, sir._

DB: _Now then. Those vampires...?_

G: _Right! Last Monday and Tuesday, they were acting perfectly normal. Well, normal as the little bloodsuckers ever get. Ain't that right, Toady?_

TS: _Indeed. We kept tabs on them and made sure they only took their blood from authorized Swollen Eyeball blood donation banks. No live victims._

DB: _Good, good. You do have a way with the vampires, Toadstool. We could use more like you._

TS: _Ah, well, thank you, but they're basically a bunch of hundred-year-old adolescents with fangs, anyway. All it takes to get them in line is an authoritative voice._

G: _And a duffel bag of garlic?_

TS: _Just a precaution._

G: _(snorts) I can still smell you, and we're videoconferencing from five miles apart._

DB: _Please, both of you. Just get on with your report._

TS: _Yes, sir. On Wednesday, the vampires started displaying markedly predatory behavior. However, we couldn't identify their target, and they reassured us they're not hunting a "human." It wasn't until Frid—_

G: _They're hunting aliens!_

DB: _Excuse me?_

_(2 seconds silence.)_

TS: _Fine, fine! Ruin our great surprise, why don't you? You know how much I've been looking forward to saying that._

G: _Well excuse me fer jumpin' to the point, Mr. I'm -a-misunderstood-and-touchy-little-paranormal-investigator-slash-undervalued-elementary-school-teacher-with-a-ruler-stuck-so-far-up-my-ass-that—_

TS: _Language, young lady!_

G:_ Ya see what I mean?!_

DB: _Oh, just go on about the aliens!_

TS: _The vampires say they're hunting two aliens. They see them as a... a "delicacy." Like an exotic, imported food._

DB: _Fascinating... We've never had such insight into vampiric feeding preferences before. Tell me, did they give you the identities of the aliens? Perhaps one of them is "the Spider" that Agent Mothman is tracking?_

TS: _I don't think so. The vampires say they saw a ship on Monday, which is how they learned of the alien presence, and furthermore claim there are two aliens. Mothman would know if the Spider had recently gained a new ally. He would not miss such an important development, almost a week after the alien's appearance._

G: _Aw, you just say that 'cause you've got a soft spot for that Mothman kid._

TS: _I do not, Mothman is simply a reliable source. He is a fine, upstanding young man._

G: _And almost as crazy as you. Speaking of which, found any of the wee folk yet, Toady?_

TS: _Excuse me! Agent Darkbooty, did you hear that?! A member of the Eyeball throwing about disparaging remarks about a fellow member's preference in paranormal pursuits? I demand you review Gourdy's membership!_

G: _Oh, quit yer yappin'! If you weren't hunting down fairies I'd be sure you were one!_

TS: _Did you hear her? Huh? This is an outrage!_

G: _Shut up, ya queer!_

TS: _After you, hillbilly!_

G: _You wanna say that again?!_

TS: _Hick!_

DB: _(groans) I think this report is over. Darkbooty out._

xxx

Hoping to every benevolent planet in the Firmament that he and Zim hadn't been followed by the police, Purple slammed shut the ancient door and sprinted to the far wall, leaning against it and panting, being sure to stay out of sight of the single window on the wall. He'd just run up ten flights of stairs and only remembered halfway that he had Pak-legs.

He'd said he wanted to do something interesting over the ten-day wait they had until Nail showed up. That didn't mean he wanted to be pursued by the Earthen authorities on just his second full day on the planet.

"This is... all your fault!" Purple panted, glaring at Zim. "You and your stupid car jacking."

"Eh?" Zim turned away from the dingy window to look at Purple. He apparently hadn't heard. What was he, half deaf?

"It's _your _fault," Purple repeated, finally catching his breath, "that we are trapped _here_, in an empty, nasty Earthen building, hiding from the human police!"

Zim scowled, and glanced out the window again. "If you hadn't kicked the tire, the car alarm wouldn't have gone off!"

"I don't even know what a tire is!" Purple moved behind Zim to look outside as well. The glass panes were so scummy and filthy that he couldn't see much, but the blurry red-and-blue lights in the street below seemed to be moving past them. Good. "If you'd actually looked at the car you'd have known we were stealing a police car."

"If you hadn't crashed my Voot in the lake we wouldn't have needed a getaway car."

"If you hadn't blown up half _my_ Spittle trying to look at the engine yesterday, we wouldn't have needed the _Voot!_"

"It's _your_ fault we got caught trying to shoplift in the _first_ place!"

"It's _your_ fault we didn't have any monies and _needed_ to shoplift!"

The last of the lights had faded away. Zim turned around to glare up at Purple. It was then Purple realized just how close he was standing to Zim—practically leaning over him—and very quickly backed away, avoiding Zim's gaze.

That had been a very close call with the police. When Purple had found this building to enter, he and Zim had been running like crazy from no less than eight human police vehicles. With guns. Apparently humans made guns that somehow spat out tiny little solid chunks instead of lasers; it sounded like a silly concept, but when Purple saw what happened to the things the guns shot at, he wasn't so sure. If he and Zim had been just a little bit slower to find a hiding place, they would have been arrested, discovered, dissected, and killed. They had risked their lives for this stupid idea of Zim's.

After a long moment, Zim said, "That was fun. We should do it again."

Purple gave him what he hoped was a disbelieving stare, though he was probably still in too much shock to do it convincingly. "You can go by yourself. I'll watch."

Gingerly, he sat down and leaned against one of the walls. He was too tall to be running around like this; he'd probably strained something...

Zim found a low box to sit on. Of course, he'd want to be a little bit higher than normal, wouldn't he? "Are you injured, my Tallest?" he asked, eyeing Purple critically.

"I'm fine. No thanks to _you_." Though he might be feeling it tomorrow. "Is all our stuff safe?"

"I thank you for asking, though your concern is wasted!" Zim said. "As you can see, I brilliantly managed to avoid sustaining any injuries—"

"Idiot, I wasn't asking about you," Purple cut in. "The snacks, Zim. Do you still have them?"

"Of course I do!" Zim held up a paper sack, inconspicuously labeled "NOT SHOPLIFTED" on one side. "As if I could lose such an essential prize."

"Good job," Purple said idly—it was his default statement whenever someone shorter than him did something that didn't displease him—grabbed the bag, and dug in. What kind of stuff did they have?

Zim saluted, beaming at the empty compliment. "An honor to serve my Tallest!"

"Mhmm." Purple took out a bag of chips, looked at the label (Doritos, Cool Ranch? What was a ranch and what did temperature have to do with it?), and handed the bag to Zim. "Poison check."

"Yes, my Tallest." Zim opened the bag and, with a nervous hesitation, ate one.

Yesterday, at Purple's insistence that he try the local cuisine, they had made an amazing discovery. Despite the fact that humans were mostly carnivores, their snacks were _good_.

Not exactly tasty-good; most of their snacks were pretty bland. But they were healthy-good. Loaded with transfats, sugar and sodium, high cholesterol and high calories, caffeinated and carbonated, laboratory-mixed and factory-processed to maximize on additives and preservatives. Probably the healthiest food Purple had ever eaten before, the kind where you just feel all-over good once it gets into your system. To think that Zim had landed on a planet with snacks like this by accident.

A strange look crossed Zim's face, and Purple was glad he'd made Zim his official food-tester for the duration of his stay on Earth. Zim had already proven his usefulness in the position once, when he'd discovered that jerky was made of _meat_. Ugh.

The strange look left Zim's face, and his eyes went wide. He dug into the Dorito-chips for another handful. "It's awful! Really terrible aftertaste!" Zim said, and half-emptied the bag into his mouth. "I shoul' take care o' thi' for 'ou, my 'Alles'."

"Yeah, right. Gimme." Purple snatched the bag out of Zim's grip. As if he'd be shoveling them in like that if they were so awful. He tried some of the chips himself. They really were good, in a weird, alien way. "Hey, these aren't so..."

He gagged. Zim was right about the aftertaste. He grabbed another few chips to cover up the taste of the first. In retrospect, that probably wasn't the brightest idea.

The bag was emptied quickly, and both Purple and Zim grabbed sodas from their Paks (Irken sodas, of course) to wash out the taste. Now that was a weird snack. Tasted fantastic for a moment, and then went horrible. Purple would have to give some to Red without warning him first. That'd be fun.

"I told you there was a bad aftertaste," Zim said.

"Shut up. They were good." Purple opened their bag of stolen snacks to look for something else, and found a heavy sack. It felt like it was full of dirt. "What's this?"

Zim looked at the label. "Pure sugar, my Tallest."

"Pure?! I thought you said humans didn't have the technology to manufacture this much sugar!"

"It grows naturally on Earth."

Purple stared at Zim. Slowly, he said, "And why didn't you include THAT in any of your reports, Zim?"

Zim shrugged. "I thought Earth sugar would be nasty compared to Irken-made sugar."

"Naturally grown sugar is always better, Zim! Why do you think Sintillate candy is so good?" Which was why Sintillia was officially under the protection of the Irken Empire, even though they could never conquer the world. Stupid Sintillates with their stupid expensive exports, holding their sugar hostage... Purple eagerly started to open the sack of Earth sugar, when something disturbed the air in the room, rustling the stuffy atmosphere like a whisper.

Purple's antennae stiffened, and he looked up. "What was that?"

Zim gave him a confused look. "Eh?"

What, was he _really_ deaf? "To your right. What was—"

His question was answered. From all sides, dark forms swept into the room, nearly blending with the shadows as they formed a circle around Purple and Zim. Purple leaped to his feet and Zim lifted up on his Pak-legs. "Hey," Zim shouted, "who are you?"

There was no response.

"Who are you?!"

The figures stood perfectly still. They could very well have been stunted trees with cloaks dropped over them.

"Answer Zim! Who are—"

"SILENCE!" one of the forms bellowed; Purple and Zim both turned to face it. It was silhouetted in the dingy, yellowish window. "Ignorant ignoramuses who have stumbled upon our lair! You know not what you have done with your loose tongues!"

Purple didn't consider an abandoned building to be much of a lair. "Okay... what have we done?"

"You have spoiled our morbidly dramatic entrance!" the figure whined. "Now we cannot maintain a proper atmosphere of mystique as we execute our nefarious pl—"

"Who are you?!" Zim demanded again. "What do you want with two perfectly normal humans like us?"

"Er, yeah!" Purple said quickly. "We _are_ human."

"And normal!"

"Yeah, really normal."

"Yep."

Slowly, the cloaked figures started laughing. "Oh, we're sure you're just as human as us," the first one said ominously. "Or, rather, just as _in_-human."

"Yes, yes we are!" Zim said. Idiot.

Purple frowned. "Inhuman? What are you talking about?"

"You do not have the scent of human about you," the silhouetted figure said mysteriously. It stepped forward. Mysteriously. "You have the scent of insect—of the moth, the black widow, the hornet, the roach. And yet, you still smell of blood. Of _alien_ blood."

"We smell like what?!" Purple said. Was something wrong with their disguises? What had Zim messed up this time? Somehow, this had to be Zim's fault.

Zim bristled. "Oh, you," he hissed. "Vampires!"

"Vawhats?"

"Dwellers of the night!" the mysterious speaker said, mysteriously. "Patrons of the dark, the dank, the unloved and the unlovable. Those with no life of their own, those who steal their unlife willingly from the unwilling living, who drink the sweet, sorrowful scarlet nectar of the ignorant day-dwelling masses. They can't possibly understand us! We're too deep, complex, and depressed for their conformist minds to comprehend!"

"Hey, watch what you say in front of a Tallest," Purple snapped automatically. Depression was a minor taboo, but taboo it still was—he'd already learned that Earthens freely talked about some of the most revolting topics. "What's all that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"Vampires are carnivores that can't handle solid food," Zim said. "So they have to drink blood."

Purple grimaced. Wonderful. Meat-eaters.

"Ah, yes," the speaker said, leaning towards Zim. "And you, O Ambassador From Space, I have heard of you. I believe you ran into some of our clan last year in Transylvania, did you not?"

"It was Pennsylvania."

"What-_ev_-er," the vampire said, then cleared its throat and readopted its spooky voice. "It is a pleasure for us to meet your personally, O Alien Invader Zim. I am sure our encounter shall be... delicious."

Purple was less bothered by the threat than he was by the preceding remark. "'Alien Invader'?! I thought you said no one knew you were here, Zim!"

"No I didn't, I said the Dib knows!" Zim said. "And the vampires don't count! They don't communicate with the other humans and they sunburn too easily to go out in the day, so it doesn't matter! Besides, we can't hide our identity from them anyway. They have weird mind-read-y powers!"

"Actually, we just smelled your..." The vampire stopped. "I mean yes! Yes, the secrets of your minds are ours!"

"Ha!" Zim clamped both hands over his head, flattening his antennae. "You may know I'm an Invader, but you'll never get your filthy brain-flesh on my secretness!" Zim lifted one of his four Pak-legs and drew it back to stab at the vampire.

"Calm down!" Purple parried Zim's Pak-leg with one of his own, grabbed Zim by his collar to keep him from running, and then turned to the vampire. "Look, I'm sure we can just talk this out," he said, reminding himself that the Control Brains had originally encoded his Pak as a Diplomat. Yeah, so he _had_ transferred out of Diplomat training to be a Soldier with Red... "Just what exactly do you want from us?"

"Merely your exquisite alien blood. And, perhaps, your allegiance to our glorious undead clan."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"We give free eyeliner to new clan members."

"No way!"

The vampires chuckled superiorly. (Purple made a mental note to remember that chuckle. He could use it next week when he and Red went to hear the Screw-head Labor Union's requests.) "We shall see. But, please, before you are forcibly inducted into our ranks, allow me to introduce myself." The silhouetted vampire flung off its hood, to reveal a freakishly pale male human with two _enormous_ spikes hanging from his mouth. They had to go down to his chin at least. Purple stared. No wonder vampires couldn't handle solid food; how would they fit it in their mouth?

The vampire smirked around his spike-fangs. Sorta. "And I," he said dramatically, "go by the name of Count Gwaednerth. It means... _blood strength_."

"Okay..." Now that Purple could get a good look at this Gwaednerth, he didn't look all that threatening. Pretty scrawny. Maybe he and Zim could get past him. "I'm the Almighty Tallest Purple. It means... purple."

One of the cloaked vampires snorted. Gwaednerth glared at it. "Sorry, boss," it said.

"That's _sire_ to you, Trystram!" Gwaednerth said indignantly.

"Actually, I'm Tristin, b... er, sire. Trystram is home sick."

"No, I'm not," another one said. "Tristem is the sick one."

"You guys sure? I thought it was Trysta..."

"Holy _shit_, you _losers!_" Gwaednerth's voice cracked and went up two octaves. He quickly recovered his mysterious voice. "Why do you all have the same name?!"

A pause, then another said, "Because it means _torment_." After a pause, it added, "And I'm Trysta."

"Oh. I see." Gwaednerth cleared his throat. "Well, more torment is better. As long as I am the only Gwaednerth in this clan."

The other vampires nodded assent.

Gwaednerth glanced around. "Hey, where did the aliens go?"

When the vampires had appeared, they'd formed a solid circle around Purple and Zim; however, when Gwaednerth had stepped forward, he'd created an opening that led straight to the window. Apparently, the heavy cloaks didn't let them see much. Purple had slid right past them, hand clamped over Zim's mouth to keep him from saying something stupid, and quietly sliced out the window pane with the laser-tip of a Pak-leg (he didn't see where it had fallen, but luckily it hadn't made much noise), and climbed out. He was now clinging to the side of the building, still covering Zim's mouth.

"Our prey have evaded us!" Gwaednerth shouted furiously. "Go, dark minions of hell! Hunt down our extraterrestrial escapees and seize them, before they traverse too far from our grasp!" Purple wondered why he couldn't just say, "They escaped! After them!" Earthens, go figure...

Zim pried Purple's fingers off his mouth. "We can't stay here, they can still read our minds," he hissed. "Come on. We need to find garlic."

xxx

Garlic, as Purple found out, was a very nasty-smelling plant. But apparently Zim was right when he said that it would be an effective weapon. The vampires reacted quite badly to the garlic; all Zim had to do was chuck one at them and they went running.

"And that's not their only weakness, my Tallest," Zim told Purple the next morning, once all the vampires had gone. "They react badly to sunlight, too. And they don't like these thingies." He held up what looked like a metal X with one extra-long leg. "But their only true weak spot is on their chest, a little off-center. The vampires are extremely vulnerable if stabbed there. I haven't determined _why_ they're so weak there..."

"Because that's where their hearts are?" Purple suggested.

Zim stared at him. "Uh... no! Don't be silly. Vampire hearts are located... in their liver! Yes!"

"Okay..."

As much as Purple hated to admit it, Zim actually was right about all the things he said about vampires, no matter how dumb they sounded. (Except maybe the heart thing.) The second night they had to deal with the vampires, Purple was prepared. The messed-up Xs proved especially effective; every time Purple held one up, the vampires ran off, screaming "A cross! A cross!" Purple asked Zim what they were going across and Zim said to ignore it, it was a Jewish thing.

Purple was surprised at how much Zim knew about Earth creatures. Sure, he'd been here a fifth of a year and wasn't dead yet, but Purple had always thought that Zim was completely oblivious to everything that happened on that distant dirt-ball he was exiled to. But now that the dirt-ball wasn't so distant, Purple could see that Zim actually _had_ been analyzing the natives. Perhaps he wouldn't have been a complete failure of an Invader after all.

During the daytime, they continued to explore the city, Zim explaining whatever they saw and Purple accepting the explanations, since he didn't know anything about humans. He'd been on Earth several days when he finally saw his first "moovy," called _AVP: Alien Versus Preadolescents_. The aliens won. Purple thought it was great until they left the moovy theater (which was a brilliant concept, Purple thought; huge explosions in dark rooms were fantastic) and Zim told him it wasn't a documentary. Moovys were fictional.

"Fictional?! Humans bother with fiction? That's stupid," Purple said indignantly. And here he'd thought huge slobbering monsters had really ripped a bunch of meatbabies into gory chunks. "Doesn't that confuse them?"

"From what I can tell, a majority of humans are born with an instinct to tell whether they're watching fiction or nonfiction," Zim said. "Yet you can still lie to them. Humans are stupid that way."

"Weird." Purple glanced in a store window to see ten or so teevy screens, each one with the same scene. It looked like two humans were wrestling without their clothes on. "So is that fiction or nonfiction?"

"It's..." Zim glanced at the teevys, and his eyes widened. "Don't watch that, my Tallest!" He grabbed Purple's hand to drag him from the store.

"Hey! Why not?" Purple leaned back to keep Zim from tugging him away, and looked inside again.

"That's how humans dance."

"_What?_" Purple immediately stopped resisting and let Zim take them out of sight of the teevys. He laughed incredulously. "That was _dancing?_ They looked like they were having seizures!"

"Isn't it stupid?" Zim said, grinning. "And they show it on teevy, too! The humans have whole stations devoted to watching each other dance!"

"They're a _pornographic_ species?" Purple almost couldn't believe it. As far as he was concerned—he and the rest of the Irken Empire—watching someone else dancing was like watching someone else snacking. There was absolutely no pleasure in it unless you were doing it yourself. "Do they make moovys about it, too?"

"All the time!"

Purple laughed loud enough that some humans turned to stare. "That's insane! _Fictional pornography!_ That's gotta be the dumbest idea in the entire universe!"

"Isn't it?!"

By this time, they were being quite loud, and most of the passing humans were glaring at them, looking slightly disgusted. Oh, what right did _they_ have to be disgusted? Purple figured that if they were the ones producing the fake porno, they deserved to be ridiculed on their own planet.

"And, my Tallest, you simply won't believe this," Zim said in a low voice, eyes shining with glee. "Even though humans officially meet the standards for a copulation-crazed race, ninety percent of their population is heterosexual."

That was all Purple could take. He started laughing so hard he almost couldn't breathe. How was it even possible for an _official_ copulation-crazed race to be _heterosexual?_

Of course, no normal human would understand why Purple, or the rest of the Irken race, would find heterosexuality humorous. Then again, a human's sexuality—heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, asexual, or otherwise—was hard-wired into them from birth, whereas modern Irken sexuality, without reproduction or even a physical gender in the way, basically boiled down to pansexuality: if it isn't annoying and if it isn't unwilling, then it can be danced with. The Irkens have wondered for eras how some species could limit themselves to only dancing with certain genders. It cuts down on a great many options for dance partners.

It wasn't often Purple was this amused. In fact, the last time he'd found anything this funny had been... well, the last time he'd been on Earth, when Zim had insisted he was the universe's greatest dance partner or something like that.

Then, his excuse had been that he'd recently danced; that was why he was in such a good mood. This time, it certainly had to be because of all the Earth snacks he'd been eating, packed with so many sugars.

Or maybe, a voice suggested, it was because Purple was actually starting to enjoy Zim's company. Purple quickly pushed down the suggestion like the stupid idea it was.

"It's almost sundown," Zim said suddenly. "We should use the time to prepare for tomorrow. The vampires won't bother us tonight."

"Why not?" Purple asked.

"Today is a Sunday, my Tallest. Vampires don't act on Sundays."

"Oh, of course. Yeah." Purple thought every day so far had been a sun day; there hadn't been enough smog to block out the sun. Did Earth have moon days or something? But it was true that the vampires didn't come out when it was sunny...

"Tonight we may freely plan our counterattack!" Zim declared. "The filthy vampire fiends shall soon taste the wrath of Irk!"

"Oh yes. Yes, they will." Purple grinned evilly at the thought of a victory over the vampires. Nobody challenged the Irken race unless they wanted to be annihilated.

"And then," Zim said, his smile just barely twitching into a more sly look, "we shall move on to plotting the destruction of the entire human race."

"All right!" Any destruction was good destruction. Perhaps, Purple conceded to the little voice in his head, at times, Zim could be entertaining company.

Purple was in such a good mood, he didn't even notice what he had just semi-promised to the ex-Invader Zim.

He also didn't notice that as he walked, Zim was, triumphantly, still holding his hand.

xxxxx


	11. Hallowed Acid

A/N: Happy seventh birthday to Invader Zim! (The show, not Zim himself, obviously.) As promised, here be a bonus update, to commemorate the day.

I've actually been meaning to ask this a while, but just remembered to. Does anyone know what happened to The Scary Monkey Show website? I used to use it all the time for reference, but back in November when I went looking for it, it was gone. I've been accessing it through the Wayback Machine, but it'd be really nice to actually know why it went down. Anyway, I've just been curious about it. (And by the time everyone gets to the end of the chapter, you'll probably have forgotten I asked. Oh, well.)

Extra note: I know Jhonen's said that Dib and Gaz were created as an experiment by Professor Membrane. But, that doesn't necessarily mean there couldn't have been a "mother" of some sorts involved, at the very least someone who allowed Membrane to artificially inseminate her with the super-babies he was making, or perhaps even a woman (or wife) who honestly didn't know the children she was having were the products of freaky experiments. And that woman might have had a brother. Which is why Dib and Gaz have an uncle in this fic. So, you don't need to call me down for not knowing my canon: I know it, I just occasionally play with its loopholes.

Enjoy the chapter, and please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Hallowed Acid

xxx

An email from toadstool(a)swolleneye(.)net to mothman(a)swolleneye(.)net, Sun. Dec. 14, 11:05 PM: _Dib—_

_It's been a while since I've had a chance to talk to my favorite nephew. Between work and Swollen Eyeball patrols... you know how it is. I pulled vampire duty for December. At least it isn't Santa preparation duty._

_How are you doing? Is your father still practicing parental neglect? I figure he is, I don't see why he would change now. Let me tell you, if my sister were still around, you'd never have to go though that. She might not have made the most nurturing mother (assuming she WAS genetically your mother, since you never know what Membrane might have done to make you), but she wasn't neglectful. Probably._

_Actually, truth be told, no one on either side of your family is very good at parenting. Maybe it's genetic. Dib, never have children._

_Anyway, something came up today that might interest you. Agent Gourdy and I just finished our report to Darkbooty about our experiences with the vampires. Apparently, they're currently hunting aliens. Darkbooty suggested that their target might be connected to "the spider" you've been tracking. (Its name was Zip, right?) I thought you'd like to know._

_I'm sorry I haven't had time to visit you lately. At least winter break is coming up soon, so perhaps we can get together then. I've already got my house fortified for the Santa attack if you'd like to visit; I doubt your father would notice._

_E-mail me back when you have time._

_Love,_

_Your uncle_

_P.S. Ask Gaz for me if she's met fairies yet. They tend to be attracted to young girls without loving parents, you know. I'm sure they'll target her someday soon._

xxx

Dib was half-asleep on his homework when the email alert on his computer woke him up. He jerked his head up, a piece of notebook paper stuck to his face, mumbling, "Isolate the variable."

What had woken him? He peeled the paper from his cheek, blinking blearily around the room. Oh, computer. Email. Right. Yawning, he straightened up, rolled his chair in front of the computer, and accessed his email.

For the first time all year, Dib was almost caught up on his homework. Even his math. Mr. Mudd would be so surprised. Of course, the only reason Dib had made so much progress was because he hadn't seen Zim in over a week. It was amazing all the free time he had when he wasn't stalking an alien. Now all he had to do was finish his math homework for tomorrow...

Dib read the email. His tired eyes shot open. Finally, a lead on what Zim was up to! He couldn't let this pass by. Zim, connected to the vampires? This was too good to be true. Dib had to check this out immediately.

He jumped out of his chair, ran to the door, and yelled into the hall, "Hey, Gaz! Uncle Denny wants to know if you've met any fairies yet!"

Muffled by her bedroom door, Gaz shouted back, "It's almost midnight, Dib. This is stupid."

"So? You're still up."

Gaz growled. "No, I haven't met a fairy, and if I did I'd never tell Uncle Denny."

"Thanks!" Dib ran back into his room and typed a quick reply—thanks for the info, I can't wait to come over for Christmas, and Gaz still hasn't seen any fairies. He sent it, snatched up his bag of Zim-hunting supplies, and headed out the door.

xxx

In retrospect, Dib wondered whether charging out into cold at midnight in the middle of winter had been a good idea. He hadn't even put on his trench coat. Real smart.

And he had no idea where to look for Zim, other than his base, and Dib had already swung by and not been able to see anything unusual. So here he was in the middle of the city, at night, with a giant bag full of camera supplies, water guns, and water bottles, shivering and wondering what to do now.

This was dumb. Uncle Denny hadn't even said for sure that the vampires really were after Zim. He was probably still hiding in his base, trying to stop the freaky molt thing. Or coming up with a new evil scheme. Then again, hadn't Zim promised he wasn't trying to take over Earth anymore?

Yeah. Fat chance.

For all Dib knew, Zim might be agitating the vampires on purpose. A distraction so Dib wouldn't suspect he hadn't really given up on conquering Earth. Dib figured he should just go home, finish his stupid math homework, get some sleep...

A flash of green about a block away caught Dib's attention. He looked towards it just in time to see a door swing shut. Had that been Gir?

Dib sprinted towards the door, almost getting run over as he crossed the street, and barely glanced up at the sign as he jogged inside: Boock Stor. That was just pitiful. Must be locally owned, since the only person who could make a sign like that would have to be someone who had gone through the Sity Publik Skool Distrekt.

There was no sign of Gir inside the store, nor of the chaos that typically accompanied him. The store was crammed with dozens of low, unsteady old bookcases, with thick tomes piled several feet high on top. The only other living being Dib could see (assuming he was living) was an ancient man asleep at the cash register, drooling on the countertop. Dib eyed the still old man nervously, decided he'd rather not check his pulse to find out if he'd died in his sleep, and moved slowly into the rest of the store. Gir or not, Dib knew _something_ had just come in here...

He heard a sound around one bookcase, someone turning a page, and stopped walking. Who else could be here? Was that Gir? Or, no—most likely it was Zim. Had to be. Leaning next to the bookcase to keep from being seen, Dib carefully tried to glance around the edge.

His weight caused the bookcase to creak and shift. Dib gulped and looked up—the precarious towers of books tottered, and fell. With a yelp, Dib dived out of the way as the books came tumbling down.

He curled up on the ground with his arms over his head until the books stopped crashing, then slowly opened his eyes. Hey, he was alive. For the past week he was 15 out of 15 for surviving near-death experiences, and that was without Zim around. Not bad...

Dib pushed himself to his feet and discovered someone staring at him. Someone decidedly not-Zim. Dib gulped. "Er..." He could take the apologetic awkward teen approach or the ever-suspicious paranormal investigator approach. Seeing as this guy had a red cowboy hat, an ankle-length tan trench coat, and a big hump under his coat, Dib felt justified in taking the second approach. "Hey, who are you? What are you doing here?"

The man stared at Dib a moment, looking baffled and more than a bit wary. "I'm... reading. Yeah. That's what this place is for, right? Reading?"

Dib looked at the table the man was sitting at; it was covered in stacks of books. From what Dib could see of the covers, they all seemed to have something to do with vampires. Everything from 1930's paranormal field guides to bad romance paperbacks. "Yeah, but you're usually supposed to _buy_ them before you read them."

The man looked fearfully at his book pile, as if wondering if Dib had caught sight of it yet. "Y-yeah, I knew that! I was just... you know, looking at them before..."

"It's fine, I'm not gonna tell anyone," Dib said. Just based on this guy's weird clothes, Dib figured he guy was probably a hobo who'd wandered inside and didn't have any money for books. Most likely one of the schizophrenic ones whose paranoia had turned paranormal. "Why are you looking at all this, anyway?"

Dib received another distrustful look before the hobo finally said, "The vampires are out to get me."

"Is that so." Definitely a paranoid schizophrenic.

"Yeah, it is," the hobo shot back, clearly recognizing the patronizing tone in Dib's voice. "And I suppose you don't know anything about Gwaednerth's swarm, do you?"

"Well, I met him once," Dib said. "Wait. You've heard of Count Gwaednerth's clan?"

The hobo sneered. "He only gives his name every time I run into him. Gwaednerth and all the Tryst-things and Bedivere and Urian and Alouarn and Glyndwr and Rheinallt and Fflamddwyn and Tangwyst and Creirdyddlydd..."

"How do you _remember_ all those?!" And Dib had thought he was good just for learning how to pronounce Gwaednerth correctly. What kind of name was Creridyddlydd?

"Repetition." The hobo apparently decided he didn't need to listen to Dib anymore, because he picked up one of its books and started reading with a bored, glazed look. Dib glanced at the cover and grimaced in disgust at the title: _The Year's Best Vampire Lesbian Erotica_. How did this stuff get published? He quickly backed away from the hobo, hoping that he really was a crazy that had no idea what he was reading.

But, he'd known the names of all those vampires. Dib recognized several of them as well; he'd either run into them or learned about them through the Swollen Eyeball Network. This wasn't a typical street schizo. Which meant maybe it'd be worth Dib's time to try to pump him for information on the connection between the vampires and Zim.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?" Dib asked, taking a few of cautious steps closer to the hobo. "Have you ever heard of a guy called Zim? Green skin, no nose or ears..."

"Huh?" The hobo appeared to be distracted by the book. He was turning it sideways, frowning in puzzlement, as if trying to figure out what was going on. "Oh. Yeah, Zim. Annoying little bug."

Bug? Bug, as in, the Spider? This was no ordinary homeless crazy. He was obviously implying knowledge of the Swollen Eyeball. He had to be another member, then. A member that had no idea how to do research on vampires, but a member nonetheless. His expertise was probably in a different field of the paranormal.

"Yeah! He really is a bug, isn't he?" Dib said eagerly. "Kinda like a... oh, I don't know... an _arachnid_, of some sort?"

The hobo shot Dib an uncomfortable look. "Sure... one of those. I guess." Clearly, he was uneasy because he didn't know who else could be listening in.

"Don't worry," Dib said quietly, claiming a chair next to the supposed hobo. "I haven't seen anyone else in here and the store owner's either asleep or dead. Listen—I know Zim's an alien, too. I know what you are."

The undercover agent gave Dib a wide-eyed, alarmed look. Dib quickly said, "No, no, it's okay! We're on the same side." After all, this guy _had_ to be another agent in the Network; how else would he know about Zim, and why else would he be researching vampires in the middle of the night? "I'm Mothman. You might have heard of me; I've been studying the spider for a bit over two years now." He offered his hand.

The other agent eyed his hand suspiciously, but didn't move to shake it. "Oh, right, the spider. Yeah. Of... course I've heard of you." He skimmed the store, a paranoid glimmer in his eyes, before he said, "I'm Purple."

Agent Purple... Dib hadn't heard of him before. He wondered what paranormal phenomenon his name alluded to. The flying purple people eaters, maybe? "I take it your expertise isn't with vampires, Agent Purple," he said, glancing at all the books. "Just a guess, but you probably deal with aliens, right?"

Purple snorted. "Well, _duh_. I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Dib had no idea what that meant. He figured Purple was one of those agents who'd had a few too many brain cells fried while in the line of duty; that would explain why he was dressed like a hobo. "Well, if you're looking for real information on vampires, you won't find it in that..." Dib gestured weakly at the lesbian vampire erotica, "that... gay book... porn thing."

"This is _porno?_" With a look of extreme disdain, Purple shut the book and tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced off a bookcase behind him and made the stacks of books on top sway a bit. "Well, great! Where else am I supposed to find out about them?"

"Maybe I could help," Dib offered. "What do you need to know about vampires?"

"How to kill them."

Of course. Didn't everyone? "There aren't many ways. Have you tried garlic?"

"Yeah."

"What about crosses?"

"You mean the Jew things?"

"_What?_"

It took a while, but Dib finally managed to figure out that Purple had been using garlic and crosses to ward off vampires so far, and had attempted to kill a few by stabbing them through the heart, to little effect. For some reason, he thought that vampire hearts were located near their stomachs. Which was a logical theory, Dib had to admit; if the heart pumped blood and vampires got blood by drinking it, a link between the stomach and heart was possible. Except for the fact that the heart _wasn't_ near the stomach. "What about holy water? Have you tried that?"

Purple looked skeptical. "I thought water didn't hurt Earth creatures."

That was a weird way to phrase it... Purple had definitely been on the receiving end of several alien mind probes, Dib concluded. "Well, _normal_ water, yeah. But _holy_ water's completely different."

"What's the chemical formula for holy water?"

"Er... I don't think it's any different from—" Dib gasped. Formulas had reminded him of equations, equations had reminded him of pre-algebra, and he still wasn't done with his homework for tomorrow.

He jumped out of his seat and snatched up his bag. "I've got to go! Sorry, but I've got... uh, other stuff to do." He started jogging towards the exit, shouting over his shoulder, "Listen, you can probably get holy water at any church. Just try not to tell them what you want it for. If you need any more help, I think Uncle Den... I mean, Agent Toadstool's got vampire duty this month. You can contact him through the Network!" He swerved around another stack of books, rushed past the sleeping/dead man, and headed home.

When he got home, he discovered that Gaz had turned on the automatic perimeter security and wasn't letting him in. By the time Dib managed to break into his own house it was 6:50 AM. He hadn't finished his homework, hadn't gotten any sleep, and hadn't even found out anything about Zim. Dib wondered whether or not he needed to sort out his priorities.

xxx

As soon as Mothman left, Purple did a search with his Pak on the human "World Wide Web" (which was a boring name, Purple thought) for locations of this "church" the strange human had referenced. Mothman had said he was on Purple's side, which apparently meant Zim had somehow garnered his support for the Irken Empire. He wondered why Zim hadn't mentioned him before. "Gir?"

The pile of books beside Purple trembled for a moment, and then was decimated as Gir burst out from beneath them, dressed in his green disguise and clutching a picture book. "Yes!"

"Contact Zim and inform him that we may have an idea for dealing with the vampires. I'll meet him back at his base and he can come up with the plan."

Purple was quite happy to let Zim come up with an actual plan, as he himself was utterly pitiful at comprehending anything even vaguely mechanical—and he suspected figuring out how to attack an entire clan of vampires at once would involve more than soaking a sponge in holy water and lobbing it at them.

There was a reason why, when the Control Brains had encoded Purple's Pak for Diplomacy training, they had also warned him that if he should want to switch to a different duty, to never ever try to be a Technician or an Inventor. True, it was more likely than not that whatever idea Zim came up would backfire, but unlike Purple he knew how to use a screwdriver.

However, when Zim _did_ get something right... that was a sight to behold.

"Yay! We're gonna do stuff!" Gir said, twirling around atop a pile of books.

"Oh yes we are," Purple said, grinning. "And what stuff we'll do." He started laughing evilly, before he caught himself and cleared his throat. He'd been spending far too much time around Zim.

xxx

Monday night did not prove to be a night when Zim got something right.

The holy water was indeed very effective against the vampires. After replacing all the water tanks in a building with holy water, Zim and Purple had lured the "clan" into the building, sealed the doors, and set off the emergency sprinkler system.

Unfortunately, they quite quickly discovered that holy water has the exact same chemical composition of regular water. The "holy" part didn't actually change anything except the fact that some Earthen religion said the water was more special. The vampires were being burned by nothing more than spirituality. That was just stupid.

Although, as Purple informed him several times, Zim beat them all out for stupidity for not figuring out the holy water would burn Irkens, too, before locking himself and Purple inside with the vampires. Zim made a mental note to do a test run first before informing his Tallest that another plan was completely danger-free.

On the plus side, standing on a table with four umbrellas to share among a crowd of twenty is a great situation for striking up quick truces, unless you want to be shoved off the table and into ankle-high hallowed acid. During the forty-five degrees it took for the water tanks to empty themselves (the humans who came to work in the morning would have quite a mess to clean up—who knew that five hours of water could cause so much property damage?), Purple and Gwaednerth had struck up a peace treaty: no vampires would try to eat Irkens, and in return the Irkens wouldn't blow up the vampires.

On their way out of the building, sloshing through the water on Pak-legs, Zim said quietly, "We'll break the treaty, right?"

"Of course we will," Purple said. "We're Irken."

And to be Irken is to be evil. Zim grinned. "And once we've conquered the vampires, I'll be free to hail the Armada to come and destroy the rest of the Earthen population. Right?"

"Right," Purple said. "Er—I mean _wrong_. No. Bad Zim."

"What?" Zim looked up at Purple. "Why not?" Sure, he had _expected_ that answer, but for a moment he thought Purple hadn't noticed...

"Because Earth isn't going to _be_ destroyed, Zim. In fact, we're not even going to bother with the vampires. So forget about it," Purple said. "Earth is too far away from the current boundaries of the Empire for us to send the Armada out here, especially when Operation Impending Doom II is still going on in the _rest_ of the universe."

"But we _will_ need to conquer Earth eventually, right?" Zim said hopefully. If the Irken Empire were to include the entire universe, Earth would have to be part of it.

"_Eventually_. Even if Operation Impending Doom II is successful, it might be two or three eras before—"

"But I'll be ANCIENT in three eras! How do you expect me to conquer Earth if I'm four and a half eras old?"

"Are you stupid? We _don't_ expect you to conquer Earth! Did you forget that?" Purple suddenly turned around. Zim followed his gaze, and realized that they had a grotesquely pale audience listening in from the stairs above them. "Shoo!" Purple shouted. "I've got a Jew thingy!" He took the metal X out of his Pak and waved it at the vampires, who silently slid away.

He turned back to Zim. "Why are we standing here? Unlock the door!"

Sullenly, Zim took the duplicate keys he'd made that morning out of his Pak, unlocked the door, and held it open for his Tallest to pass through before exiting the building himself. A wave of water followed them out into the street.

He had been _so close!_ Zim had been sure that his expert handling of the vampire threat would have been enough to convince his Tallest that he deserved to be an Invader. What else would it take?!

"My Tallest," Zim began, hurrying to catch up with Purple, "I realize that at times, in my enthusiasm to help my empire in any way possible, I may have overlooked a few tiny details in pursuit of my past missions—"

"_Tiny?!_ Do you think overlooking which PLANET you're on is a tiny detail?" Purple said, glaring down at Zim. They were far enough down the sidewalk from the building that they weren't in danger of stepping in water anymore, so Purple retracted his Pak-legs. Zim didn't. "You attacked Irk!"

"But, my Tallest!" Zim said, desperately. "Doesn't that just show how good I am at destroying things?"

"That's not the point. You're not on Earth because you're good at destroying things, you're here because you tried to _destroy Irk_. You hurt US, so we punish YOU. That's how exile works, Zim!"

But... that was such a waste. The Irken Empire needed Zim's talents. How couldn't Purple see that? Zim scowled. "That's _stupid!_ Why bother exiling me if I could be busy bringing glory to my empire through another conquest?"

"Because even if you weren't exiled, we wouldn't let you be an Invader," Purple said. "And stop calling it _your_ empire. You're not even legally part of it anymore."

Zim flinched; he hadn't realized that being exiled from the Irken Empire meant that he was no longer an Irken citizen. Purple turned away, obviously satisfied that he'd shut Zim up.

It didn't matter. He'd become an Irken citizen again, and he'd become an Invader again, and he'd conquer Earth just like he'd promised he would. He just needed to find out _how_.

"Why not?"

Purple gave Zim a sideways glance. "Why not what?"

"Why wouldn't you let me be an Invader?" Zim demanded. "I understand why I've been exiled. You haven't told me why I'm not qualified to be an Invader, even after I passed my training with top scores."

"Yeah, you probably 'passed' the same way you got through Hobo 13," Purple muttered.

Zim didn't think his perfect score in Invader training was any less valid just because half the trainees taking the test with him had died. Under mysterious circumstances. "That's not the point! Zim demands reasons!"

"Because you're defective! And you're insane!"

"Nonsense!" Zim tipped his head back slightly, rising up on his Pak-legs, so that he gave off the illusion of glaring down at Purple from a great height. Zim hadn't dared to do this intentionally in years; it was the height of impudence. Sure, he sometimes used his Pak-legs to make himself taller, which was rude enough on its own. What he was doing now was different.

When Zim was a smeet, back when he was still able to see over a swarm of his peers if he stood on his toes, he'd perfected a way of looking down at someone and making them literally shrink back from his gaze, making them feel inferior. It was a great psychological trick, one that had won him many arguments, but one that was dangerously audacious the way he was attempting to use it now: to make the Almighty Tallest feel shorter than Zim, the shortest Irken in existence.

Reckless stupidity _was_ admired among Irkens.

"The Control Brains ruled that I'm sane and not-defective, didn't they?" Zim said. "And even if they hadn't, none of that has EVER interfered with my duties as an Invader, has it? I was making _amazing_ progress on Earth, even without being an official Invader!"

"Well, that's not the only reason," Purple said, but he didn't sound certain anymore. "You're also... er... well, you're..."

"Short?"

Purple looked away from Zim—looked _down_ to avoid meeting his gaze. For a moment, Zim felt a rush of pure power, the same rush he got at the controls of laser-packed mech, knowing that he could destroy a thousand lives with the mere flip of a finger. For a moment, Zim had made the Tallest defer to him. "Well, yeah, you are short, but I wasn't going to say that."

"Yes, you were. Of course you were." Zim growled to himself, looking away from Purple, at the ground. It was almost impossibly far away—why couldn't it always be that far? Why couldn't Zim always wield this power? "That's always what you're going to say. After all, _Zim_ is flawless in every other aspect! The only thing anyone could possibly say against me is that I am SHORT! Is that it? The one flaw anyone could call me down on, and it HAS to be my height. As if my height would even make me less of an Invader, but does anyone care? NO! All that matters—"

"Zim."

"Matters is that—"

"ZIM!"

He turned to look at Purple, blinking. "Eh?" He'd actually forgotten he was there.

Purple held out a chocolate bar. "You need this."

"Oh." Zim accepted the chocolate. "Yeah." He hadn't realized how dark he'd let his mood become.

"And get off your Pak-legs," Purple muttered, still refusing to look at Zim. He wondered if that still meant he could intimidate Purple a bit.

Just to see what would happen, Zim said, "No. I like it up here."

Wordlessly, Purple reached over and pushed Zim's head down until he gave in and retracted his Pak-legs. He scowled, straightening out his wig with his chocolate-free hand. So, he wasn't intimidating enough to get away with defying a direct order from a Tallest.

Zim didn't quite realize that however imposing he could make himself look, Purple wouldn't be truly intimidated by anything short of a laser in his face, and not even Zim would so blatantly threaten his Tallest. Even so, somehow he felt that he wouldn't have to.

Sure, his handling of the vampires hadn't been enough to change Purple's mind about his worth as an Invader, but Zim was certain that on some level, Purple did value him. Why else would he have saved Zim's life? Given Zim his blood? Why else would he have ordered the black market operative Nail to come to Earth and actually make Zim _taller?_

The reminder that he wouldn't be this short for long cheered Zim up almost as much as the chocolate. Perhaps Zim wouldn't have to do anything. Perhaps Tallest Purple would realize on his own that Zim didn't deserve to be exiled.

For a moment, neither spoke. Zim devoured his chocolate and Purple navigated; after only a few days on Earth, he was already able to get around its city more easily than Zim could after two Earthen years. Not that Zim was about to admit that.

After perhaps a degree of silence, Purple said, "You can't be an Invader because you have another mission, remember? You've still got to make eggs."

"Oh. Of course," Zim said, much calmer now that he had some sugar and caffeine in his system. True, he wasn't completely wasting time during his exile. He was still making himself useful. And surely the Tallest would see that and reward him properly.

Zim blinked a few times, realizing his vision was starting to get slightly blurry; his Pak had stopped supplying power to his ocular implants. It had been a long night, cowering under one umbrella with Purple and three vampires. He was probably low on energy.

Purple apparently had the same thought, because he said, "I claim the recharge chamber first."

"Yes, my Tallest," Zim said, with only a hint of a disappointed sigh.

The brick-like Earthen buildings were starting to get smaller, which meant Zim and Purple were moving out of the core of the city and getting closer to his base. For once, they hadn't gotten completely lost trying to get home. Zim decided to let Purple lead more often.

"There's still about a day and a half until Nail's supposed to get here," Purple said. "Recharging's only going to keep us occupied forty degrees." That meant Purple had forgotten Zim would need to recharge after him. "What are we supposed to do until then?"

"Um..." Zim shrugged. He'd spent enough time exploring Earth over the past few days to last him an era. He just hoped his Tallest felt the same way. "Stay in the base, eat an obscene amount of snacks, and watch stupid documentaries about Napoleon?"

Purple shrugged as well. "I guess."

So they did.

Zim wondered why he hadn't just suggested that from the beginning. They watched four documentaries, eventually got bored with them, and watched nine or ten horrible "alien" moovys. They enjoyed the whole thing immensely. Sometime in the middle of either _2002: A Space Oddity_ or _Indeterminate Day_, Purple made what was perhaps the greatest snacking discovery in the past 50 eras: Doritos, if dipped in chocolate pudding, didn't leave that horrible aftertaste.

They had so much fun, in fact, that the computer had to try four times before it could get their attention to say that Nail had arrived.

xxxxx


	12. Exoskeletal Extension

A/N: An important note about time: I think that for most of the mentions of years in the show, the human lengths of time are given, even when Irkens are talking. Evidence of this: in The Trial, Zim causes a five-year blackout on Irk when he's born. Then, when he's been training under the surface of Irk for ten years, he causes a second blackout that, as the Control Brains say, lasts "seven years," so the blackout should end when Zim's 17 years old.

According to Jhonen (well, according to Wikipedia according to Jhonen, and I foolishly trust Wiki, so that's the canon I'm going by), Zim is _16 Irken years_ and 159 Earth years old, which means that the Brains are predicting the future if they know when the blackout ends. Either that, or the five years, ten years, and seven years mentioned are, for the audience's convenience, in Earth time. That would mean the first blackout was half an Irken year long, Zim caused the second one when he was one Irken year old, and the second blackout was seven-tenths of an Irken year.

So I pretty much figure that most of the time, when Irkens refer to years, they're translated into Earthen years. After all, how could Zim have ruined Tak's life "fifty years ago" if he's only sixteen? Most likely, it was fifty Earth years ago, or about five Irken years.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Exoskeletal Extension

xxx

The Control Brains' records of the last five smeets brought to life before the disaster on Horrible Painful Overload Day, 16 Irken years ago: _A NOTE FROM THE BRAINS: After randomly generating an Irken smeet's personality, we, the Control Brains, take it upon ourselves to denominate him/her with a name reflective of some aspect of his/her physical self and/or personality, and to encode him/her with a career path where he/she would most likely excel. However, an Irken smeet, if he/she is dissatisfied with his/her assigned career path, may request to transfer into another path and receive training for it instead. Thus, we also encode each smeet with our suggestions as to which duties he/she is less or more suited to perform._

_What you see below is not a full record of the unique data programmed in each smeet's Pak, but merely his/her name, his/her original encoded career path, and an excerpt of our suggestions._

_Presenting the records in this abridged manner merely makes running the Irken Empire easier for everyone._

_name: BUFFER career: MILITARY/Guard_

_suggestions: You are unsuited for abstract or advanced thinking, and will only be able to follow simple orders. A tendency to sit in the same place for a long time will make the duties of a Guard ideal for you. However, due to your lacking intelligence, you will most likely not notice anything but the greatest disturbances, and thus it is our sincerest hopes that you will not be entrusted with guarding anything more important than, for example, a broken wrench. Do not expect many promotions. If you are short enough, we recommend switching into a Drone career, as that will more closely fit your level of skill._

_name: RED career: MILITARY/Soldier/Pilot_

_suggestions: You have a quick, tactical mind that will serve you well during battles when swift decisions are needed, and your inclination towards understanding complex machinery will help you repair or upgrade ships. For the latter reason, you could also excel as a Mechanical Technician if you do no wish to pursue a Military career. Unfortunately, you suffer from a lack of confidence in your independent decision-making skills that makes you unsuitable to hold a command position. We suggest you get used to the idea now. You will never, ever be a leader._

_name: PURPLE career: DIPLOMACY/Diplomat_

_suggestions: You have absolutely no mechanical skill. If you wish to take a Scientific career, do not become an Inventor or a Technician. However, your personality is well suited for uncovering large cultural trends, whether they are in Irken or an alien society, and with training your social skills will be strong enough that you could be a fairly successful debater or mediator. Your strength lies in discovering problems and coming up with solutions, rather than implementing these solutions. For this reason, we also urge you not to take a Military career._

_name: MERK career: ARTISTRY/Architectural Artisan_

_suggestions: Your inclination towards mathematics and physics will assist you greatly in the designing of buildings and structures. Unfortunately, your imaginative skills are limited to more imitative styles and thus your architectural designs, while functional and practical, will never be entirely unique. We recommend that you seek long-distance commission-based partnerships with Invaders, as your imitative skill will be useful in helping Invaders design bases that resemble architecture native to the planets they are conquering. While you are ill suited to most careers outside of Artistry, you might find modest success as an Inventor if you invest your time in designing the bodies of spaceships and other vehicular craft._

_name: ZIM career: FOOD SERVICE/Shift Manager_

_suggestions: While you are well qualified for nearly all professions in the Food industry, you are best suited to Shift Manager. With your commanding personality we expect you to be promoted quickly along an administrative path. Assuming you attain a respectable height, you have the potential to rise very swiftly to the esteemed rank of Frylord. If, for whatever reason, you do not want a Food Service career, you would also be suited to many other careers, though we recommend Mechanical Technician or Inventor. However, your temperament is not fit to handle heavy weaponry. Please, for the good of Irk, never take a job that would require you to operate large guns. _

xxx

Nail wondered what was taking so long.

She had hailed Tallest Purple a quarter degree ago, asking to land, and he hadn't responded yet. No one had responded.

Finally, her transmission was answered. Not by an Irken, unfortunately—it was one of those annoying automated answering systems. A computer.

"Uh, sorry for the wait. Tallest Purple's kinda distracted right now," the computer said. "I'm trying to get his attention."

Nail sighed. "Fine. Just keep trying."

"Will do."

She slouched down in her seat, glaring dully at Earth through the view screen. "What is he so distracted with, anyway?"

"I dunno if I'm at liberty to say. The Tallest's doing secret mission stuff."

"I see," Nail muttered. "Can I at least ask who your master is?"

"Sure!"

Nail waited.

"Well?"

"What?"

"Who is your master?" Nail growled.

"I am the one-third Macintosh, two-thirds Irken computer system of the Earthen base of Exile Zim." Macintosh? What was Macintosh?

Nail's antennae perked up. "Exile? He isn't going by Invader anymore?"

"Naah. Turns out the Tallest were just lying to Master about that."

Well, it had certainly taken Zim long enough to figure it out.

So, this only gave credence to Nail's worst fear. Somehow, this had to do with Zim. Tallest Purple had said she was supposed to do an exoskeletal extension, and he'd also said it wasn't going to be on him, so unless there was a third Irken in Zim's base right now (not likely), she would probably be doing the surgery on...

No, she refused to consider the possibility until it couldn't be avoided anymore. In any case, she was still performing an illegal surgery at the orders of a Tallest, which meant she couldn't very well refuse if she didn't want to be executed for participation in the black market.

Although the possibility of fatal malpractice wasn't ruled out...

"Okay, I think he's answering now," the computer said.

Nail sat up straight and told her ship, "Initiate identity distortion signal!" Her ship's computer beeped twice to let her know that her transmission would be altered so her voice and face would be unidentifiable.

A moment later, Tallest Purple's face appeared on the view screen. "Hey, what took you so long?"

"Ergh..." Nail could ask Purple the same thing; it didn't usually take half a degree to answer a transmission. "I'm... sorry, my Tallest. I tried to warn you before I came that the trip would take me ten days..."

"So? Why are you late, huh?"

Nail blinked. "Uh... I'm not."

"Really?" Purple looked confused. "Oh. Yeah. Okay. Good job."

"Thank you, my Tallest," Nail said patiently. She'd always thought Purple was the duller of her two leaders, but it wasn't like she could choose which one she had to do business with now...

"Well, if you're here on time, why haven't you landed yet?"

Nail resisted the urge to sigh. "I'm waiting for your permission to land."

"Oh. Go ahead."

"Thank you." She ended the transmission before she muttered, "Idiot." She wouldn't usually say anything against her Tallest, even in private, but it had been a long flight and she'd run out of her good snacks two days ago. She had been making do with chocolate muffins from Shloogorgh's. The chocolate was a lie.

But beggars can't be choosers, no matter if she was hungry, and no matter if she had to work for her least favorite Tallest. She should be honored to be working for a Tallest, no matter which one it was. Besides, this was the only profitable work she could do. For now.

Less than two more years...

Nail steered down towards Earth, skimming just under the clouds—lucky for her she'd installed a cloaking device a few weeks ago—scanning the blocky buildings below for the one that emitted an Irken energy signature. Zim's base wasn't hard to find; in the unnerving two-toned red-violet dawn, the base radiated a welcoming green, the same color as dawn on Devastis, just bright enough to be visible in the dim morning. It was a terrible imitation of Earthen architecture, but Nail grudgingly had to admit that on this world, the Irken style was a comforting sight.

Perhaps she'd thank Zim for the momentary comfort by anesthetizing him before she killed him.

The roof split open, and she lowered her ship into Zim's base.

xxx

Purple was in the hangar when Nail arrived. Not that he'd exactly been waiting for Nail. He'd just realized that he was completely out of uniform, and he'd left all his armor in his Spittle Runner. He wasn't about to let some black market surgeon think that he considered this to be anything less than a pure, solid, legitimate, Tallest-approved business transaction. Torso armor, waistbands, hover belt, outer skirt... he just managed to get everything on before Nail's ship descended and landed.

The surgeon leaped out of the ship (a model Purple didn't recognize—probably customized) and saluted smartly. "I humbly await your orders, my Tallest."

Purple could see why Nail had gone through such pains to distort the transmissions; both indigo-eyed _and_ female, she'd stick out in a crowd of Irkens like a naked Vortian. She wouldn't be hard to catch if a squad of Police Soldiers learned about her underground activities and decided to hunt her down. Beyond that, she also had a very prominent face piercing, and—although Purple was probably the only one who would think this was significant—she was about 85 units tall. Just within what _should_ have been average height, 80 to 120 units. "So you're Nail, huh?"

"Yes, my Tallest. At least, that's the name I go by for the time being," Nail said. "I did not gladly pursue this line of work. It's simply the only way I can make a suitable living over the next two years."

"Why? What happens in two years?"

"The Control Brains will allow me to take the test to become an Invader."

Before Purple could get Nail to elaborate, she gave him an odd look. "My Tallest? Is there a reason you don't have your..." She gestured at her wrists, searching for the right word.

Purple looked at his forearms. "Oops." He'd forgotten to put his armored gauntlets on. "No reason! I just kinda... forgot them... Gimme a moment, okay?"

Purple hurried over to his Runner, opened it, and searched the junk on the floor for his gauntlets. When he got them on and turned around, Nail was still looking at him strangely. (It was remarkably similar to the look Red kept giving him these days, whenever he said something suspicious.)

To move things along and to stop her from staring, Purple asked, "So how much taller can you make someone?"

"It depends on the customer's..." Nail quickly corrected herself, to keep from suggesting that she thought she'd be doing surgery on Purple, "er, the _patient's_ original height, my Tallest." She hesitated. "Perhaps if you gave me a range, I could estimate how much I could do..."

"Say, Zim-height." No point in hiding it now.

"Oddly specific," she said, but didn't seem surprised. "I could make him... sixty-five or seventy units, given enough time." She didn't say it as if she relished the idea.

And Purple didn't like it much either. Irkens seventy units in height were still short, but they weren't _short_ short, they were _tall_ short. Zim didn't deserve to be tall short. Purple had read in an old report he'd found while in the recharge chamber a couple of days ago that Irkens only had to be thirty units to grow eggs. "Don't let him get any bigger than forty units."

Nail just barely sighed in relief. "Gladly, my Tallest," she said, bowing. Purple wondered if there was a specific reason she didn't want Zim taller, or if it was just the general: nobody wanted Zim taller.

"Can you do it now?" Purple asked. "I want to get this over with."

"As you wish. However, I must request that my... patient be anesthetized and unconscious before I begin the operation," Nail said. "It's simply a convention for a procedure like th—"

"YOU!"

Purple looked towards the shout. Zim was standing in the open lift, staring at Nail. Based on the way his antennae were set stiff almost straight back and his teeth were bared menacingly, he wasn't happy to see her.

Nail looked panicked. "Don't you dare say—"

"What are you doing in MY base, Tak?!"

Nail—Tak?—screeched furiously. "ZIM! You complete _idiot!_ I'm going to KILL you!"

"Nuh-uh!" Zim got up on his Pak-legs, ready to fight. Nail/Tak responded by shooting out her own Pak-legs, so Zim pulled out a laser, so Nail/Tak pulled out two—before anything could start, Purple got in the middle.

"Cut it out, both of you!" he said, and glared at Zim. "Especially you."

Purple turned to Nail/Tak/whoever. "What's going on here? Tak? Is that your real name?" No wonder she'd wanted Zim unconscious before he saw her. If Zim already knew her, he could identify her and give her name to Purple, and Purple could track her down later that much more easily and toss her in jail.

Glaring nervously at the ground, she nodded. "Yes, my Tallest. It is."

The name sounded familiar... "Hey, haven't I seen you before somewhere?"

Tak/Nail nodded again. "A fifth-year ago. I contacted you to say that I would take over Earth and fill it with snacks."

"Oh yeah." Purple remembered now. He'd been sorely disappointed when Zim contacted the Massive to say he'd stopped Tak. "Pity you didn't do it."

"I could do that!" Zim said. Purple and Tak ignored him.

"How'd you end up in the black market?" Purple asked, studying Tak more closely, comparing her to the Invader trainee who'd once promised him a planet full of snacks. "And—hey, are you taller?"

"You _are_ taller!" Zim said, and skittered past Purple on his Pak-legs to lean over her. "You were almost my height when you were on Earth!"

Tak grimaced. "Don't be ridiculous, I was at least fifteen units tall!"

"Negative five at most," Zim said stubbornly. "How'd you get so tall? Doing surgery on yourself? Eh?"

"No! That's impossible!" Tak said. "I _grew,_ Zim. I had a growth spurt. I suppose you wouldn't know what one of those is, _would_ you?"

Zim flinched, just slightly drawing back on his Pak-legs. "D... Don't be ridiculous! Everyone knows Irkens stop growing after an era! You couldn't have—"

"I'm eight years old, you moron."

All the anger dropped out of Zim. "What?"

Purple was surprised as well. Tak didn't behave like she was so young. Slark, she was barely more than a smeet. She was half Purple's age, and she'd already tried to take over a planet _and_ learned how to do an illegal surgery. When Purple was her age, he and Red had been tricking Drones into hang from their knees out of windows by telling them that it'd stretch their spines.

Zim retracted his Pak-legs and stood in front of Tak. The top of his head didn't quite reach her crotch. "You _grew_ that much?"

"How tall are you, Tak?" Purple asked.

"Eighty-seven units," Tak said. If she had been fifteen units a fifth-year ago—or even if she _had_ been negative five—she could certainly have grown that much. Seventy to ninety units in seven hundred days wasn't that outrageous of a growth spurt, especially not when an Irken was seven or older. Smugly, Tak added, "My projected height is one hundred and nine units."

What, so she knew how tall she was _going_ to be? How was that possible? "What's projected—"

"Excuse me, my Tallest," Tak said suddenly. "I apologize, but before we proceed, I'm afraid I must find something to eat. I've lasted the past two days on Shloogorgh's chocolate muffins."

Purple was about to say that she had no reason to complain if she was eating food from Shloogorgh's, of all places, until he noticed Zim unconsciously shudder. Okay, so maybe the muffins weren't so good. He'd have to ask about them later. "Fine, you can have some snacks. _Then_ we get this stupid surgery over with."

"Thank you, my Tallest." Tak saluted, and then headed directly towards the lift. She apparently knew which way to go.

Zim jogged to keep up with her, eying her back suspiciously, and Purple trailed after him. "Hey, Tak," Zim said, his voice very conspicuously lacking in malice. "Have you ever tried Doritos?"

xxx

Tak hadn't tried Doritos before.

She didn't like them.

After Tallest Purple and Zim had finished laughing at her reaction and Purple had forced a reluctant Zim to give her some decent snacks, Tak found herself answering a barrage of questions. (She chose to ignore most of Zim's, which Purple didn't object to.)

What's a projected height? When an Irken is born, the Control Brains encode several things into its Pak: a name, a personality, a job with suggestions, and a projected height. In the same way that the Brains analyze an Irken's personality to give it a fitting name and job, they can analyze the Irken's DNA now to estimate how tall it'll be. The estimates are almost always correct, give or take three degrees. Tak believes they started doing it about eleven years ago, which was why Tak got a projection and apparently Purple didn't. She thought Purple would have known about it, he _is_ the Tallest.

Why is Tak in the black market if she wants to be an Invader? For some reason, she can't get a good job. She's qualified to be a Soldier at the least, probably a Captain or even a Pilot, but the Control Brains refuse to encode her to be anything other than a Janitor until she's taken the Invader test, which they won't let her do until she's full height, in two years. At least she's not a Janitorial Drone. So since they won't change her coding, the only way for her to take a job better than Janitor is through the black market. She met an old Irken who taught her how to do exoskeletal extensions, he wanted to pass on the craft before he went to the voids, and so she's been doing that. The pay is very good, as one could well imagine. Tak wouldn't be doing it if there were any other way she could make enough monies to stay alive.

How are they done, anyway—do surgeons need a special program for them? Actually, no programs exist to instruct a computer on how to do exoskeletal extensions. If any known programs existed, the Control Brains could track down computers executing the program and arrest both the patient and the supplier of the program. All extensions are done by surgeons who have learned the procedure. The surgeons least likely to be caught have memorized the procedure with their actual brain, rather than letting their Pak memorize it. That way, the Control Brains can't find the information while a surgeon's Pak is plugged into a recharge chamber.

Does Tak have it memorized with her brain? Only parts of it, but enough parts that if the Control Brains access what's in her Pak, they won't be able to tell what it means.

"Unfortunately, remembering part of the procedure with my brain means that the memory may be flawed, which increases the likelihood of surgical errors," Tak said. "I've yet to seriously injure or kill a patient, but I feel I should warn you ahead of time that there is considerable risk involved in exoskeletal extensions..."

"Stop right there," Purple said. "That reminds me. Tak, you don't like Zim, do you?"

"Ehm, we have a... negative history, as you may recall," Tak said carefully.

Zim wasn't as delicate. "You destroyed my base!"

"You destroyed my career!" Tak shot back.

"You destroyed my best lawn gnomes!"

"You destroyed almost an entire generation of Invaders in one attack," Purple said flatly. He turned back to Tak. "So you don't like Zim."

"Er, no, my Tallest."

Zim opened his mouth, but Purple covered it with a gauntleted hand. "Understandable," he said. "But there are some things you need to know before you start the surgery."

"Yes, my Tallest?" Tak figured Purple felt the same way about Zim as she did, if the fact that he and Tallest Red had banished Zim to begin with was anything to go by. Given that, he was hopefully about to explain why in the Firmament he wanted Zim taller to begin with.

"If Zim comes out of this dead, crippled, severely impaired, mentally damaged—I mean more than usual—traumatized, with damaged or rearranged organs, or otherwise in a condition where he can't dance, you will be arrested, you will _not_ get a trial, and you will be EXECUTED for high treason." Purple had never looked so dead serious before, not in all the footage Tak had ever seen of him. "If I ever find out that there are so much as tabloid rumors that I've been on Earth, Zim's getting an exoskeletal extension, or anything else having to do with him and me is going on, the same applies. It'll be your life. I don't care if you did it or not, I'll assume it's you. If you try to find out from me, from Zim, from Zim's computer, or from anything else why Zim needs this extension or what the purpose of the mission I've given him is, you're dead again. Capisce?"

"Uh..." Tak gulped. "E-excuse me, my Tallest... but... but what does... 'kapeesh' mean?"

"Never mind! Do you understand me or not?"

"Yessir! I understand perfectly!"

"You'd better."

Zim's eyes were slightly narrowed from what had to be a cruel smirk under Purple's hand, the magenta-red glowing in dark triumph. Purple glanced down at Zim. "And I don't care how much you want to brag, if you tell Tak anything about the mission, I'll... do something bad to you, too. Take away your busted SIR or something. Got it?"

Looking slightly alarmed, Zim saluted enthusiastically.

Purple turned his gaze back on Tak, dropping his hand as he did. (As soon as his mouth was uncovered, Zim stuck his tongue out at Tak. She tried to ignore it.) "So, can you get started now?"

Weakly, Tak said, "I think I'm going to need some more snacks, my Tallest. To... fortify myself."

"Fine." Purple pulled a jar of Duper Dip out of his Pak—where had he found Duper Dip?—and handed it to Tak. "Eat as you walk. We're going down to the med bay."

"Yes, sir." She only had the bag of Doritos to put the dip on, but she discovered the chips weren't so bad if they had the dip. Nervously, she got on the lift in Zim's living room, clutching her jar and chip bag as if she could use them to protect her from Zim and Purple.

This made absolutely no sense. Why would the Tallest go through so much trouble to defend Zim from Tak? Zim was probably the one Irken least deserving of any protection. Purple himself had mentioned one of his worst crimes, killing all the other Invaders in Operation Impending Doom I.

More questions followed the first. Why was Tallest Purple giving Zim another mission? What was the mission? Why did he want Zim taller? Why had he said on the transmission ten days ago that Tallest Red couldn't find out about this mission?

Why hadn't he been wearing part of his uniform when Tak had arrived? Why did he care whether or not Zim would be in a condition to dance?

How had Purple lasted the past ten days on Earth with no company other than Zim? Tak knew full well that there was nothing, absolutely nothing interesting for an Irken to do on Earth. What had he done to entertain himself, alone with Zim, so far from the attentive eyes of Tallest Red and the Irken Empire?

Tak wondered whether or not there was a very good reason for her to like Tallest Red more than Tallest Purple.

The lift stopped and opened onto a level of the base that Tak had never seen before, but recognized from the blueprints Mimi had given her by hacking Zim's computer. She oriented herself based on the map stored in her Pak, and headed towards the med bay. "I'll have to anesthetize Zim before I can start," Tak said. "That will take two to three degrees, and then the procedure itself will take fifteen to twenty degrees."

"That's an hour and a half to two hours, right?" the base computer asked.

"Er..." Tak's Pak converted the time to Earth measurements; Irkens counted rotations in 220°, and a full rotation of Earth was 24 hours, or 1440 minutes, which meant there were 11 Irken degrees to 72 Earthen minutes... "Actually, that's an hour and forty-eight minutes to two hours and eleven minutes."

"Oh." The computer paused. "Now I'm all confused!"

"It's part Macintosh," Purple explained flatly. Tak wondered again what that meant.

As they reached the med bay, Purple said, "Computer, since you did the original surgery on Zim, you're in charge of making sure Tak doesn't do anything to mess it up."

"Yes, my Tallest."

Original surgery? What was that supposed to mean?

Purple looked at Zim. "And you'd better not complain about anything. I don't know why you would, since we're going to all this trouble to make you taller, for Irk's sake..."

Zim saluted happily. "Of course not, my Tallest! I would gladly go through the worst pain in the universe in order to complete this procedure!"

"Oh yeah, that reminds me. Tak, you can't do any permanent damage, but feel free to make him hurt a lot."

Zim's smile disappeared. "Hey!"

Tak smirked. "Computer, if you would kindly restrain Zim."

"Will do."

Zim yelped as several metal arms scooped him up and latched him to a table. "Computer! You're not supposed to listen to HER! Let me g—_mmfph!_" The rest of his complaint was cut off as more arms shoved a tube with a sedative gas in his mouth and covered his eyes so he couldn't breath.

"Thank you, my Tallest," Tak said, beginning to feel a bit less like she was being punished by this and more like Zim was, which was how the universe should be. "Although Zim most likely won't feel anything until he wakes up."

Purple shrugged. "Eh, whatever. Just let me know when the extension thingy's done." He turned to leave.

"Wait! Where will I find you?"

Purple hesitated. "I'll be in the SLP chamber. But you can't go down there. Computer?"

"Yeah?"

"You tell me when the extension's done instead."

"Mmkay."

Zim didn't stop struggling and finally fall unconscious for a little over two degrees, which Tak spent sitting across the med bay from him and enjoying watching him flail. When he was finally still, she undid the straps over him, took a scalpel out of her Pak, and dispassionately slit open his clothes to get access at his full body.

She didn't get much farther than the magenta overshirt and pink undershirt before stopped, gasping in alarm. "_What_ is _that?!_" she squealed, staring in baffled shock at the long slit from Zim's mid-torso almost down to his crotch. For a moment, she almost thought that she'd accidentally cut him open while cutting his clothes, but there was no blood and it didn't look like a wound.

"What, you don't recognize it?" the computer said. "You should have one too, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Tak pulled out a second pair of gloves from her Pak, bright yellow and much thicker than the standard black ones. She put them on before she prodded at the slit with the flat side of her scalpel, pulling it slightly open. Whatever it was, it looked like it was _supposed_ to open like that; there was skin on the inside, too. It wasn't a rip. Tentatively, she started to push open the other side with one finger.

"Well, you're a female, right? All females have those."

"What does that—" Tak fell silent as she remembered something—uncovered some diagrams in the biological files of her Pak, anatomical diagrams that hadn't applied to Irkens for perhaps thousands of generations. She jerked both hands back with a disgusted screech. "_Ew!_"

"Whaaat? It's just a vajayjay."

Tak didn't even ask why the computer was saying it that way. "Why does Zim have one?!"

The computer didn't answer for a moment. "I'm not at liberty to release that information."

"Why not?"

"It's got to do with Master's secret mission."

Well, wasn't that beautiful. "Does this have to do with that surgery that Tallest Purple said Zim had before?"

"Yeah. It was to do this."

Which meant that, for some reason, Purple _wanted_ Zim to have layer organs.

Tak had been working the black market long enough to know that anything that can be made, is made, anything that can be sold, is sold, and anything that is made and sold, is somebody's fetish. Tak had received quite a few requests to do genital assignment surgeries, requests she always turned down because she didn't know how. It wasn't her place to question other Irkens' interests, as long as she was paid.

Even so... Zim. Taller. With layer organs. _Zim._

Tak put on a third pair of gloves before removing the rest of Zim's clothes (thankfully, there were no more... surprises) and starting on the exoskeletal extension.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to bring herself to salute Tallest Purple again.

xxxxx


	13. Irken Machine

A/N: Wow, I can't think of anything to say this chapter. Hmm. Well, I like the Control Brains. (Even if they're not _technically_ active characters right now.) And... yeah, that's all I can think of.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And please remember to review! I like reviews.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Irken Machine

xxx

The Control Brains' records of three smeets brought to life within the past era, or the past 10 Irken years: _A NOTE FROM THE BRAINS: Several Irkens have expressed the fear that with our new policy of projecting the heights of smeets, we might skew our judgments of what jobs they are suitable for and may under- or over-value the smeet's future skills. It is a well-known fact that taller Irkens are more able to handle higher duties than shorter Irkens are. Nevertheless, we do not pass judgment upon a smeet at birth. Rather, we analyze their personalities to assign a job before we look at their genetic code, hence alleviating all fears of bias. However, we have added secondary suggestions, in which we incorporate any new information the genetic analysis reveals, so that we may have a more complete estimation of what a smeet shall be like as an adult, taking both personality and height into account._

_The first of these three records we are allowing you to see was made four years ago, in description of Exile Bob, formerly Table-Headed Service Drone Bob._

_name: BOB career: HISTORICAL/Anthropologist_

_primary suggestions: You will have a tendency to question traditions, which in many disciplines could lead to unruliness, despite your overall compliant character. However, as an anthropologist, this tendency will lend itself well to researching such traditions. Your inquisitiveness and natural rejection of Irken cultural conventions shall allow you to analyze the historical context in which these conventions arose. If your rebellious tendencies overpower your compliant aspects, you could easily narrow your focus and become an Alien Anthropologist, which would allow you to escape the Irken Empire by traveling to recently conquered worlds and studying the indigenous life, assuming they are to be assimilated into the empire._

_projected height: 4 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: While your future height is quite disappointing, we still expect you to contribute to the empire. A historical training wouldn't be completely wasted on you, as Informational Drones can give directions to foreigners or tourists who may appreciate any trivia about the indigenous life that you will be able to provide. We regretfully suggest you do not train to be an Anthropologist, as your height would never allow you to be one, and instead find a Drone job as soon as possible. We encourage you to educate yourself during your time in recharge chambers, and to focus on the compliant aspects of your personality._

_The second record was made eight years ago, in description of Janitor Tak, formerly Invader Trainee Tak._

_name: TAK career: MILITARY/Soldier/Invader_

_primary suggestions: You are uniquely qualified in many ways to be an Invader. Your planning skills are quite advanced, as are your observational and analytical abilities. You possess the mind of a Diplomat; you will easily be able to look at utterly foreign cultures and quickly understand the nuances of their hierarchy and general cultural personality, a skill highly valued when attempting to dupe such cultures into doing whatever the empire wants. However, we believe your skills would be much better spent as an Invader. In particular, your mind indicates that you shall grow up to have the confidence, glibness, and superb imagination required of an expert liar. You shall make a fantastic Invader._

_projected height: 109 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_The third record was made within the past year, in description of Fataz..._

xxx

An Irken smeet takes approximately five days to molt into an adult. Fataz's egg had hatched ten days ago. He'd spent the past five days in a tube in the SLP chamber, looking out at the distorted world with the blissful bafflement of someone who's never interacted with another living being in his life. His young brain was trapped in the slow stupor all modern Irkens endure when they first awaken in the birthing facilities before they receive their Paks. He recognized movement in the outside world, occasional hulking forms that wandered around in the shadows; his only companion was a small silvery person with a body shaped approximately like Fataz's, who would often come up to the tube and knock on the glass and mumble words that Fataz didn't have the linguistic capacity to understand. Still, he was happy.

Then his life took a drastic, horrible change, and he was thrust into the harsh outside. But he was still happy.

Without warning, the liquid supporting Fataz drained out of the tube, and he discovered that air was a lot thinner than he'd previously experienced, and that gravity did, in fact, exist. The world was also much less blue without the liquid of the tube. It would take a while to get used to this, although it was quite exciting. He wondered if the liquid would ever come back.

Before he'd completely adjusted, something even _more_ exciting happened. The glass tube that made his world lifted up—he'd had no idea it could do that!—and above him stood a new companion. A deep instinct that not even thousands of generations of cloning could erase told him that he was far more closely related to this new companion than he was to the silver one that he'd seen through his tube, even though the new one was much bigger than him. This was one of his species.

The big one leaned over, scooped Fataz up (movement! How thrilling!), turned him over (look! A floor!), and said something he didn't understand at all (how amazing! Words!). Then he felt a sharp pain in his back, the first pain of his life, which surprised him too much to hurt; then something settled inside him, in the bony tunnel that cradled the nerves running down from his brain to the rest of his body, the spine that the rest of his internal exoskeleton curled out from; then, suddenly, he knew stuff. Oh, such stuff he knew. Like words. Oh, such words he knew.

The big one—Irken, his new vocabulary informed him—turned him around and looked in his face. "I guess I've got to do the introductory thing," he muttered, then cleared his throat, and said, "Welcome to life, little smeet-thing. Little _Irken_ smeet-thing. Not... some other kind of... smeet-thing. Uh... I guess you don't have to report for duty or anything so... hi." The Irken lowered Fataz, disgusted. "I'm not doing that again. That was stupid."

"No, no, I liked it," a deep, disembodied voice said. "It was good for a first try, Almighty Tallest."

Fataz, meanwhile, was going through the euphoria of having something _alive_ speak to him! Oh, what wonder of wonders! In his ecstasy, he slid out of the big Irken's hands and wrapped himself around the Irken's middle, clinging to him with utter jubilation at knowing that now, and forever, he was not alone in the universe. "I _love_ you, really big annoyed Irken person!"

"Yeah, yeah, get off." The big Irken pried Fataz off his middle. "And I'm Purple. Tallest Purple to you."

A name! A title to call this new person! Grinning, Fataz said, "Okie-dokie, Mister Tallest Purple!"

Purple started carrying Fataz somewhere. Oh goody, an adventure! "What's your name, smeet?"

His Pak supplied the answer. "Fataz!"

"Good. You've got your name encoded. And you can talk. Does he have his life-support programs, computer?"

The disembodied voice spoke again. "He does. However, his personality is unprogrammed and he's missing a great majority of the files on Irken knowledge that he should have. He can develop a personality on his own but he'll need to connect to the Control Brains to get the files."

"I thought these Paks already had the whole of Irken knowledge?"

"Yeah, but I think you deleted some of it when you encoded Fataz's name. You're not very good with computers, Almighty Tallest. No offense, but if I had to choose between a computer virus and letting you update my firewalls, I'd risk the virus."

"Great," Purple muttered. He looked down at Fataz's face again as he carried him into a small chamber, which Fataz's Pak informed him was a lift. After a moment of critical study, Purple said, distastefully, "You've got Zim's eyes."

As this seemed to be a bad thing—although Fataz's Pak informed him that Zim had been the name of several prestigious historical Irkens—he said, quite apologetically, "I'm sorry, Mister Tallest Purple."

Purple sighed. "It's not your fault," he said. "It's Zim's."

The lift let them out on a new floor, to Fataz's great delight. It was like a whole new universe! Purple carried Fataz through the halls as he peered excitedly at all the lights and computer screens and... and... wow! That was a _ceiling!_

"So I'll have to take him back to Irk and bring him to the Primary Birthing Facility to get that stuff programmed, won't I?" Purple asked.

"No," the disembodied voice said. "You can do it here. I can establish a link to the Control Brains and you can plug the smeet into the recharge chamber."

"That'll work?"

"It should. I can contact the Control Brains and ask them for the same information they give to Paks in the birthing facilities."

"All right..."

Fataz was taken to the first recharge chamber he'd ever seen. He was set down on the chair, and his Pak was plugged in. This was so cool! He'd never done this before! What was recharging like? Was it fun? Was it—

A static sound hummed through him, interrupting his thoughts, filling his Pak and disrupting the weak electrical charges in his mind. This new sound, composed of endless data, spoke to him with the voice of the memory of four trillion ancestors: "_Welcome to the Irken Empire. Welcome to the Irken machine. You are the body. We are the brains._"

Speechless, mindless, Fataz sat silent as the Irken machine's brains sifted through his soul and told him who he was.

When they were done, Fataz deftly detached his Pak from the chair in the recharge chamber, leaped out, and saluted his Tallest. "Archivist Trainee Fataz reporting for duty, sir." He glanced around, fully comprehending his surroundings and furthermore understanding that they were not what they should be. "Hey, where is this, anyway? This doesn't look like the birthing facility. Where am I?"

"What, you think I'd work at a birthing facility?" the computer said, offended. "As if I would ever hang out with those prissy birthing computers."

"You weren't made in a birthing facility, Fataz," Tallest Purple said. "This is Exile Zim's base, on planet Earth."

"Oh." Fataz vaguely recalled that he'd heard the name Zim before, some time in the fuzzy past. Perhaps he'd heard his Tallest say the name. Had that only been a few moments earlier? It felt so long ago. Already, his memories of the time before the Control Brains had reached inside him felt as if they were three million years away.

He recognized the name Exile Zim, though, and the name Earth. Exile Zim was the most hated criminal in the empire, an enemy to all Irkens. Earth was the rubbish speck of a planet he was exiled to, a planet of unknown location. Fataz wondered why he'd been made here and why his Tallest was here as well, then decided to just trust Tallest Purple's judgment.

Purple circled around Fataz, studying him as he'd studied him earlier. "Archivist Trainee, you say?" He grimaced. "Could be worse. Hey, computer."

"Yeah?"

"Display his basic birthing record. I wanna see his projected height. It'll have that, won't it?"

"Yeah." A metal tentacle snaked out of the wall and plugged into Fataz's Pak. On a nearby computer screen, Fataz saw his soul displayed in stark green and black light:

_name: FATAZ career: HISTORICAL/Archivist_

_primary suggestions: You will have an organized, methodical manner of thinking. If the duties of Economists had not already been supplanted by ourselves, the Control Brains, you could easily do that. Nevertheless, your logical thought processes are suitable for taking historical data, drawing conclusions as to the cause of events based on prior conditions, and then organizing these conclusions in a coherent manner for the research of other Irkens._

"You didn't get any of that logical stuff from Zim," Purple said. "You must have got it from me."

"But you're not organized either, Almighty Tallest," the computer said.

"Shut up. I'm not paying you to talk back."

"Why does everyone think they're paying me when they aren't?!"

_Although you are not especially qualified to be a Soldier, if you do not wish to be an Archivist, your logical skills could assist you greatly in tactical analysis. Therefore, it may be worth your time to struggle through basic Soldier training and then attempt to be promoted to War Tactician._

"Hey, that's a lot better than Archivist!" Purple said. "Fataz, you're transferring to Soldier training. Tallest's orders."

Fataz looked at Purple in shock. Why couldn't he be an Archivist? It sounded interesting. "But the Control Brains said I'm not qualified to be a Soldier!"

Purple shrugged. "They told me the same thing. I survived."

Fataz's antennae drooped dejectedly. "Yes, sir."

_projected height: 102 UNITS_

Purple cheered. "Look at that! Almost perfectly average, and on the first try! So Zim _can_ do some things right. Hey computer!"

"What?"

"Let's go celebrate! Pudding and Doritos for everyone!"

"But I can't eat."

"Aww, don't be such a whiner!"

And Tallest Purple was gone, leaving Fataz behind, his Pak still wired into the base as the last line of his record was displayed:

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

Fataz pulled the metal tentacle out of his Pak, detaching himself from the computer, and looked around, wondering what to do.

A small, silvery person—no, that was the companion from before his programming—no, that was a SIR, wasn't it—came down the hall, humming a song that no smeet as young as Fataz should hear. "Hey!" the SIR said. "You was the little blobby boy!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Fataz said.

"Mmhmm." The SIR nodded its head sagely. "I'mma king of the mini-tires. You wanna see a cow-human?"

Fataz still had no idea what the robot was talking about. But he didn't have anything better to do, and a cow-human sounded interesting. "Okay."

And so, Fataz spent the majority of the day in the shadowy parts of Exile Zim's SLP chamber, hanging out with the tribe of wild cow-humans who had made the SIR Unit named Gir their king. He got to listen to the myths and fables they'd created about the things they saw in the world around them—mostly metal, chicken, and small green people like Fataz.

He forever after considered it 150 degrees well spent.

xxx

Extending Zim's exoskeleton from -12 units to 40 units proved to be much more challenging than Tak had thought.

It wasn't that she hadn't stretched Irkens out fifty-two units before. The greatest extension she'd ever done was seventy-six units, on an Irken 143 units tall who had wanted to become Tallest. She had dutifully made him 219 units tall, waited until she got her payment, and then contacted the Control Brains to anonymously give them the information of the Irken who'd received the illegal extension. He was arrested within eight degrees by a swarm of thirty Police Soldiers. Tak had no qualms about the evils she was committing in this line of work, but she would never commit treason.

The problem was, extending the exoskeleton of an Irken who was already fairly tall was easy, because there was plenty of bone to work with. But to raise Zim's height 50 units, his height was nearly doubling; that was much trickier than raising the height of an Irken already 150 units tall, where another 50 wasn't that dramatic a change.

To do an extension, Tak had to slice through the exoskeleton at an angle, all the way around it, slide it slightly apart—careful with the spine, can't cut through the nerves—and apply a medical glue to hold it together until the Pak could force the body to speed-heal the fissure. She had to repeat the process all along the exoskeleton, with a dozen fissures, making it just slightly longer each time. Then she did the same along the leg and arm bones; unlike the torso, Irken arms and legs didn't have an exoskeletal structure, simply bones. No organs to protect.

To stretch Zim out to forty units, Tak would have to do about twice as many cuts as usual. That meant she'd take about twice as long as usual to finish, and when Zim woke up, he'd have twice the pain until his bones healed.

Tak considered it time well spent.

Smirking to herself, Tak cheerfully cut Zim into pieces, and took her sweet time putting him back together.

xxx

When Zim woke up, his Pak informed him that he'd been unconscious for the past thirty-four degrees, quite a bit longer than the fifteen to twenty degree procedure Tak had promised. His first, brief thought was that he should be _tall_ now. Well, okay, not tall, but taller—and then he was distracted by a searing pain, everywhere from his neck down.

He gritted his teeth. Okay, status check: Zim was alive, which was quite fortunate, considering that Tak, of all Irkens, had been given complete power over him for the past thirty-four degrees. He checked for paralysis; he twitched his feet, and was answered with a monstrous pain, as fiery and all encompassing as hydroxylic acid. All right, his feet clearly weren't paralyzed. He decided to just trust that the rest of his body below the neck was movable. What about antennae? He wiggled the left and felt it brush the cold table beneath his back. Good. He wiggled the right and didn't feel anything. Typical. Honestly, why did he bother with the right one anymore?

Now for specifics: pain. A lot of pain. That about summed it up. At least his head was fine. He slowly opened his eyes, turned his head slightly, looking around himself. "Hello?" he croaked.

Tak was still there. She was sitting on a stool beside the operation table, legs crossed, fingers laced and hands resting on her knee. Zim did not like that smile on her face. "Hello, Zim," she said, in that bright tone that she had a habit of using whether or not her facial expression matched it. For once, it did. "How are you feeling?"

He growled. "Feh. Zim feels fantastic!"

"Good, good, I'm so _glad_ to hear!" Tak's smile widened, a slightly manic gleam entered her eyes, and her voice raised a half-octave in cheer. "It's just _great_ that you're finally awake. You see, I'll need to do some _tests_ now, to see if all your nerve endings still work. Computer? Secure him!"

"Fine."

Zim felt several metal bands slam down across him, holding him in place. He grunted in pain. Whose side was his computer on?

Tak pulled a metal probe from her Pak and wielded it like a blade. Her expression bore an alarming resemblance to that human Zim had seen on the news last night, the one which had the subtitle that said, "Unknown Mass Murderer: Still At Large." With a giggle, Tak said, "Let me know if you can feel this!"

She jabbed the probe somewhere in Zim's abdomen. He screeched in pain, struggling against his bonds, which only made it hurt more.

Tak shrieked with laughter. "G-good! No nerve damage _there_," she said, trying to hold back her giggles. "Let's test your upper torso, hmm?"

Another jab in the very center of his chest, and a second in his side. He screamed again, but forced himself to bite his lip. He had too much pride to let Tak see his pain.

Tak giggled. "Ohhh, is _little_ Zim annoyed at me?" She poked him, this time with just her finger, over his stomach. He whimpered; she giggled again. "I didn't think such a hardened _Invader_ would be pained so easily."

_Crack._ That almost hurt more than all Tak's stabs combined. "Go jump in a lake!" Zim snarled. (Dib had used the phrase on him last school year and had not been able to understand why it offended Zim so much; of course, the ignorant pig knew nothing about Irken taboo.)

Tak flinched, jerking back and narrowing her eyes, antennae flattened against her head. "Jump in one yourself," she hissed. "Show your superior some respect, tiny thing. Just remember which of us gave the other an exoskeletal extension, and which of us has willingly become the object of some freaky fetish."

Zim stared at Tak, baffled. Okay, Tak had been the one to give Zim an extension, that was obvious; but as far as Zim knew _he_ wasn't the object of any fetishes, freaky or otherwise, so maybe that one was Tak, too? "Deh... both of those are you, right?" Although now that he thought about it, he understood perfectly how someone could find him so amazingly attractive that their obsession for him bordered on fetishism...

"_Whaat?!_" Tak curled her lip in revulsion. (Okay, so maybe Zim had been wrong about her being part of a fetish.) "Ew! Don't be so stupid!" She jabbed her probe in Zim's left eye.

"OW! _HEY!_" Zim twisted his head to the side, eyes shut to avoid another stab, and knocked Tak off her stool with two Pak-legs. "Computer, let me up!"

"Fine." The metal bands snapped back, and Zim lifted himself into the air, four Pak-legs' points sitting on the corners of the operation table.

Clutching her side with one hand, Tak scrambled with her other hand and two Pak-legs to pull herself away from Zim and get to her knees. "Zim, you moron, get back down! You'll break your bones again!"

"Shut up! How dare you attack Zim when he's restrained!" His hands were half-curled and shaking, the nerves in his forearms too white-hot for him form actual fists. "Filthy, treacherous bug! The Tallest will surely punish you for—"

"The Tallest don't care, Zim! Not even Tallest Purple really gives a shot about you. We both know that, don't we?" Tak sorely pushed herself to her feet, legs trembling slightly, but she never took her eyes off of Zim.

Zim felt another sharp jab, not through his damaged exoskeleton, but through his ego—_Crack._ Furious, he bent forward on his Pak legs, looming over Tak. "Zim demands silence! You have no idea what you're talking ab—_ergh!_"

An unexpected jolt of pain shot up Zim's legs. He'd hit his feet on the operation table. But, how? He was too high above the table for his feet to possibly...

Zim looked down at himself for the first time. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the body below him, wondering where _he_ was. Then his ego kicked back in, its defenses fully repaired and shining brilliantly, to inform him that THAT was him, that amazing, long, tall, slightly scarred body. He was really that tall. Zim was no longer the smallest Irken in existence.

Wordlessly, despite the pain in his bones, Zim lifted one arm, stared at the hand, and then stretched it out just to see how far away it could go. As he gazed at the fingers, too distant to be part of _his_ hand, Zim was acutely aware of why Irkens had chosen their leaders as they had for so long, of why he had been treated as an inferior. He now saw the truth, that he honestly _had_ been inferior, had been lesser, had been of utterly insignificant worth.

But no more. Never again. Zim was now worthy of every honor the Irken Empire could bestow, was now deserving of their praise and admiration as he had never been before. He could tower above the masses, long, lithe, his reach spreading across worlds, his every step carrying him through the Firmament, from planet to planet between the voids. Slowly, a chuckle built up in his aching chest, into a raw cackle, and soon into thunderous, triumphant laughter. "I AM _ZIM!_"

"Unfortunately," Tak muttered.

Zim heard the door to the med bay open. He turned to see Tallest Purple come in. "Tak, the computer said you're finished with the surgery. Was it successf..." Purple trailed off, eyes wide, looking Zim up and down. "Whoa."

Zim could have started hopping with pure excitement, if he were not in so much pain. "My Tallest! Look at _Zim!_ Aren't I _amazing?!_"

"What are you talking about? You're only... ah... yeah, about forty units tall." That's what Purple said, but he still couldn't stop looking at Zim, obviously shocked at the change. "Er, good work, Tak."

In Zim's peripheral vision, he saw Tak bow, hand still on her side where Zim had attacked her. "I thank you, my Tallest. Zim provided several... _interesting_ challenges." Her voice was tense.

Purple laughed shortly. "Yeah. I can imagine."

Zim didn't mind what they were saying about him. He didn't mind that Tak was half-insulting him, or that Purple was half-agreeing. After all, Purple was _still_ staring at him, and it wasn't in aversion, annoyance, or aggravation.

For the briefest moment, for the first time ever, Zim was sure his Tallest's eyes had been glowing with admiration.

xxxxx


	14. Liquid Glass

A/N: I meant to mention this last chapter, but didn't think of it until this week. I don't exactly have a dA gallery to be proud of (mostly because my scanner sucks at scanning and I suck at using a tablet), but I did make a "cover" for In Short Supply. I dunno if fanfics _have_ covers, but, anyway, here's the link:

ckret.deviantart. com/art/IZ-In-Short-Supply-82101667

FFnet is evil about links, but I think this'll work. Just copy/paste and remember to take out the space between the period and the "com".

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please remember to review. Thank you!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Liquid Glass

xxx

A column by Correspondent Bibimbob, published in the Irken magazine _BrainSugar_ two eras after genetic engineering discovered a way to remove the genetic codes that formed genitalia from Irken DNA and seven years before the last non-digital publications, including _BrainSugar_, were shut down for good: "_New Irkens Not Making Slark Proud"_

_And we're proud to not make Him proud, let me tell you that. At nineteen years old and as a sterile layer (or just a sterile, since apparently I'm not considered a "layer" anymore), I'm part of the first wave of genitalia-free Irkens to join our empire. I've gotten enough questions from older Irkens about my dancing habits to try the patience of a Tallest. Here's just a sample:_

_"So, how do you do it?"_

_"Can you dance with normal fertilizers and layers, or just other steriles like you?"_

_"Is it true that all steriles are Virtuous Slarkist?"_

_And, my personal favorite: "Are steriles _really_ asexuals?"_

_A-ha. A-ha-ha-ha. A-ha-ha hardy-har-har haa._

_No._

_I think it's time I set the record straight for some old-timers out there. We could hardly call ourselves Irken if we were asexual, could we? To be Irken is to be evil, and to be evil is to dance, snack, and make merry indiscriminately. With an emphasis on "dance."_

_We are also not Virtuous Slarkists, because what the Irk kind of an idiot wants to tie himself to the water and become "virtuous"? Just like all Irkens, we are happily Zimish Slarkists, following the example of the Youngest Tallest—and we are Agnostics, Atheists, and Narcissists, as well._

_Yes, we can dance with traditional fertilizers and layers just fine. The Geneticists really knew what they were doing, see: they didn't _just_ take away our dancing organs, pffft, let's call it a day, everyone. No no no. See, all they really removed were reproductive capabilities. And, well, yeah, the organs too. But we can still dance._

_The important part of dancing is what happens in your head. From what we hear, to you oldies, it _feels_ like the important part is going on down where the action is, but the part that's really worth it is in the brain: the actual mental chemical release that happens with orgasm. And we get that just fine. Trust us, it happens._

_Now, the most common question is "How do you do it?" so here's how: it's all in the skin. No lie, while the rest of you have to ram Disk A into Slot B, all we need is tactile contact. Skin-to-skin, antennae-to-antennae, I hear some get stimulation tongue-to-tongue as well. Think, maybe those lucky bugs can snack and dance at the same time. Wouldn't that be something?_

_The concept isn't new. We've read our biology files; we know you oldies can get plenty of pleasure just touching and rubbing and all that good stuff. With us, it's just enhanced a little bit. Okay, a lot. Ever wonder why we wear gloves and pants and long sleeves even during the summer? We're talking really intense skin contact. It took me four years to realize that when I was watching you oldies shake hands without wearing gloves, you weren't groping each other. (It was SUCH a disappointing realization, too.) In fact, many work places—including the military—have instituted new uniforms, to keep employees covered from the neck down during work. Otherwise, trying to work and bumping into a stranger could be... rather distracting._

_So there you have it. Not asexual, not Virtuous Slarkist, fully compatible with all sexes and genders, and able to orgasm with about half the effort you oldies need. Just proudly doing our duty to the Irken Empire by giving Slark one more reason to hate us._

xxx

Purple would never admit it, not on any world in the entire Firmament, but there had once been a time, a few days, when he had admired Zim more than anyone else alive.

Sure, that had been years and years ago. And years. It had been within a few days of Horrible Painful Overload Day, of the temporary evacuation of all smeets currently on Irk to Devastis, of Purple's own birth. He and Red were both mere fractions of a degree older than Zim, and lucky they were; everyone born after Zim on that day had died.

That had been long, long before anyone had known that Zim was the cause of Horrible Painful Overload Day. Long before anyone had any idea what trouble Zim would be. Long before anybody knew anything about Zim except his name and, of course, his height.

Back then his height hadn't been a disadvantage, oh no. Zim was quite big for a smeet. And, only a few days after the evacuated smeets had been given their cells in some unused barracks, Zim had his first growth spurt.

He'd run through the halls of the evacuees' facilities, shouting at the top of his lungs, bursting with prideful noise: "Hey, _hey!_ Look! Look at _Zim!_ I bet none of you puny little puny-things have ever seen anything like ME before! Huh? Huh? That's right! I grew _this much_ last night!" He then threw his hands as wide apart as they would go. That was incredibly inaccurate, of course, but he had indeed grown a noticeable amount. Noticeable enough that he was then, officially, the tallest of all the smeets with birthdays on Horrible Painful Overload Day. While most smeets were around negative forty units tall, Zim was quite a bit taller. He never officially got his height measured, but most smeets estimated that it was somewhere around negative ten units. Absolutely huge.

Zim had strutted up and down the hall for most of the morning, chest puffed out, head thrown back. "I'm just that amazing, you know! I was born for greatness. That's why my name is _Zim_. It's an amazing name. For an amazing Irken. Like ME!" That was the first time Purple ever heard Zim's laugh. To his four-day-old antennae, it was the most powerful sound he'd ever heard, a sound that was only rivaled for sheer intensity by the sirens on Irk. Apparently, an amazing laugh, to match an amazing name, to match an amazing Irken.

"Hey, YOU!" Zim had stopped and whirled to face one of the smeets standing in the door of his recharge cell to see what the hubbub was. As it turned out, the smeet he had stopped to face was Purple. Zim gazed down upon Purple, head tilted back so that it seemed as if he were looking from an even more extreme height. "You, little thing! Zim asked you a question!"

Actually, he hadn't. "Um... Wh-what question?"

"What's your name?! Answer me! Answer _Zim!_"

"I... it's... P-Purple."

"Purple, huh? I bet it's 'cause of your eyes. See how brilliant I am?" Zim had grinned down at him, eyes narrowed and glimmering in delight at the processes of his own mind. Purple had never seen blown glass before. But when he did years later, watching an Aesthetic Artisan blow burning, shining, red-hot liquid glass into shape, the first thing it reminded him of was Zim's eyes. "That's because Zim is a genius. I was born that way! You'd be _amazed_ by the things I could tell you! Hey, what's your encoded career?"

"Huh? It's Diplomat."

"Hmph! Diplomacy is for losers!" Zim whirled away and marched down the hall, still talking to Purple as he left. "Be that as it may, I will hire you to do all my diplomatic stuff for me, so that I won't have to." He raised both hands in the air and pointed down at himself. "After all, I will have much better things to do when I—I, Zim!—am your Tallest! That's right! Someday very soon, _Zim_ will be your Almighty Tallest. Prepare yourselves for my mighty rule and the dawn of a new era for the Irken Empire, for I will lead us all to glory!"

And as Zim turned another corner, his boasts echoing back down to Purple's open door, he'd believed. Still too young to have learned cynicism, always just a little bit dense, he'd accepted every word Zim had said: that he was born for greatness, that he was going to be the next Tallest, that he was the greatest thing to happen to Irk since the Pak. Purple had truly been in awe, because he was too naive to know not to be.

Then, three days later, Purple had his first growth spurt, along with most of the other smeets, and Zim was annoyed to find that his shorter peers were quickly catching up to him in height. By the time there were enough back-up generators in place for the smeet training academies on Irk to take back the evacuees, both Purple and another smeet named Red were an antenna's width taller than Zim.

Zim had walked up to both of them and said they were obviously conspiring against his future rule, but not to worry, he'd soon pass them in height for good, just wait and see. Red had shrugged; it didn't matter to him yet. Purple, though, had hesitatingly trusted Zim, and believed him for nearly a fifth of a year, until another growth spurt put him tall enough to just barely see over Zim's head.

After his first spurt, Zim had never grown again. It wasn't long before Purple had completely lost respect for Zim, the one-time future Tallest.

Even so, sometimes Purple had wondered, when he and Red had just received another stupid transmission from Earth, or when he saw some zero unit Drone come into work after a growth spurt and announce, beaming with twenty new units of height, that he'd be quitting and becoming a Soldier. If Zim hadn't stopped growing, if he'd at _least_ reached an average height, or perhaps even just managed to cross the zero unit threshold, would he still command even a faction of the respect he had an era and a half ago?

Now, looking at Zim suspended in mid-air on his Pak-legs, stark naked, with layer slit and numerous stitches and longer limbs and all... Seeing Zim's face on such a stretched-out new body—not a respectable height, no, but at least no longer a shameful one—and knowing what Zim had been put through already, what he'd be willing to go through for the Irken Empire... Purple was afraid he knew the answer to that question.

Absolutely.

xxx

Zim didn't stop bouncing around and cheering until he slid one of his Pak-legs off the operation table, fell to the floor, and almost broke his fragile legs and left arm. At that point, Tak informed Zim that she was not going to get executed because Zim was too stupid to keep himself from getting hurt, and said that he could either lay down and wait for his fissures to heal on his own or she'd get the computer to make him.

"You can't do that!" Zim said. "Computer, don't listen to Tak's orders!"

"Fine."

"Computer," Purple said, "listen to Tak's orders."

"Fine."

Tak smirked. Nice to know she still had some authority here.

Zim glared at Purple, but reluctantly lay down. "How long will it take me to heal?" he asked.

"It should be about a day," Tak said. "If you move too much before then, I'll kill you." She gave Purple an uncomfortable look. "Merely a... figure of speech, my Tallest."

"I hope so," Purple said neutrally. "Or else I'd kill _you_. And that's not a figure of speech."

Zim snickered. Tak hated that snicker. And she was quickly growing to dislike Tallest Purple, too.

"Excuse me, my Tallest," she said coldly. "But, we have other matters to address now. I assume you didn't think that I work for free. Since such a thought would be _utterly_ idiotic, and I know _very_ well that you are not idiotic, my Tallest."

"Oh." The look on his face told Tak very well that he hadn't realized that she'd want pay, but couldn't admit it without looking dumb. She figured as much; she'd had to be careful to phrase her statement in a way where Purple couldn't simply refuse to pay her just because he was the Tallest. The best way was to arrange things so that he'd look bad if he did refuse. "Yeah. Sure. Uh, how much do these thingies cost?"

Quite a bit. Tak fought down a grin; lucky her Invader training had taught her to hide emotions. "We can discuss my rates upstairs," she said, walking towards the med bay door.

"Um, okay..." Before they were all the way out of the med bay, Purple turned around to shout through the doorway, "Hey, Zim. You'd better be right there when I get back. If you break any bones or anything, I might _let_ Tak kill you."

"Never fear, my Tallest!" Zim said. "I shall allow myself to heal as quickly as possible."

"Good. You just stay—"

"And tomorrow, we can dance!"

Purple quickly pounded the button to slide the med bay door shut, not even attempting to finish whatever instruction he'd been about to give. His antennae were flat against his head, the tips pulled together so they were almost touching, quivering from embarrassment. Tak could feel her own antennae standing straight up in shock at what she'd just heard.

"Uh, Z-Zim can say some pretty crazy things, can't he?" Purple said, his voice even higher than normal.

Tak pursed her lips, trying not to grimace. "Quite." She could only imagine what her face looked like now. A solid year of Soldier training and two of Invader training had taught her how to hide _almost_ every emotion, but she had never quite learned how to conceal disgust.

Purple turned away and headed quickly towards the lift, looking up at the ceiling, his antennae slightly crossed now. Tak followed wordlessly, the warning she'd learned in the black market repeating in her head like a mantra: _anything that can be made, is made. Anything that can be sold, is sold. Anything that is made and sold, is somebody's fetish._ Surgeries and operations could be bought and sold just like everything else, couldn't they? Tak supposed that for the right price (but what price? Monies? A new mission? Special privileges?), even Zim could be bought.

For a moment, this worried Tak. In a flash of patriotic fear, she wondered if it was worth risking her life to break her promise and say something about what she'd seen. If Tallest Purple was way out on Earth, shirking his duties and giving special treatment to the Exile Zim, surely, Tallest Red needed to know what his co-ruler was doing?

But then Purple cleared his throat and, turning slightly towards Tak without actually looking at her, mumbled, "So, uh. Did you... _hear_ anything?"

Her automatic, black market-trained reply was, "I may have, my Tallest. That depends."

"Name your price."

Tak grinned, all thoughts of patriotism gone from her mind. "That also depends. How many monies can you remotely transfer into an anonymous account at one time?"

When Tak left Earth approximately twenty degrees later, she was officially the forty-eighth richest Irken in the empire.

xxx

While Zim recovered, Purple entertained himself with a bag of Doritos, a bowl of pudding, and imagining every possible way he could murder Zim after this stupid, stupid mission was over. He _had_ to go and say something like that when Tak was listening, didn't he? Now Tak knew that Zim's mission had something to do with dancing. At least she had no idea _what_, but given that she'd seen Zim naked and thus knew what other surgery he'd gotten, she might be able to guess about the eggs...

Or, she might just imagine something horrible. Purple shuddered. He didn't even want to think about what she was probably thinking about. At least, he comforted himself, it was probably better if she imagined that he was doing some twisted, sick thing. If she did, she was less likely to figure out his real mission, which was probably far more embarrassing than whatever she was imagining.

Purple once again wondered at his sanity in deciding that the best way to deal with a deficit of average-height Irkens was to breed more. With Zim. Red would probably pass out laughing if he ever found out, before declaring Purple a moron and officially ordering the end of the mission. And the empire would continue to evolve apart, to fall apart.

That was why Purple had to do this, no matter how crazy the mission, no matter that he had to do it with Zim, no matter how ineffective it was. It was the only thing any Irken alive was doing to help. If the Control Brains couldn't find the problem and if Red wouldn't acknowledge one existed, Purple had no choice.

The bag of Doritos was empty. Purple could either find another one or do something productive, so he decided on the latter. Good snacks or no, he'd had just about enough of Earth and Zim. "Computer, how soon until Zim's recovered?"

"Uh, not long now. Maybe, six-ish hours?

Purple frowned. "And how long is that again?"

"Umm..." The computer tried to remember the conversion between hours and degrees, apparently failed, and said, "A quarter of a day."

Only fifty-five degrees, then. Purple hadn't realized he'd spent so much time just waiting for Zim to recover. He'd only gone through twelve bags of chips. "What about Fataz? What's he doing?"

"He's with Gir."

"Oh Slark." That was always a bad sign. "Is he all right?"

"All right by Master's standards, or in general?"

"In general!"

"He's just fine."

Purple sighed. "Good. Go tell him to do something away from Gir for a while, okay?"

"Yes, Almighty Tallest."

Purple was relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with this for long. He could admit (reluctantly) that he'd had a lot of fun the past few days, but the stress of being on a foreign world was starting to catch up with him.

Irkens have a tendency to deny or to not recognize when they're anxious, when they're stressed or depressed, but they'll gladly say that they're hungry instead. After being stuck on this world for over a week, and after all the trouble with the exoskeletal extension, Purple was starved, exhausted to an extent that sugars and fats couldn't fill him entirely. He needed a dance.

Purple got up from the kitchen table and headed to the lift under the couch in the living room. He was starting to get tired of the pseudo-Earthen décor in the upper levels of Zim's base. "Computer, take me down to the med bay."

"Okay."

He planned out the next few days in his head as he rode the lift down. He'd have to dance with Zim soon—the idea relieved him more than it disgusted him, now—and then as soon as possible he'd take his Spittle Runner to Irk and drop Fataz off in a Historical training academy, with instructions to switch from Archivist training to Soldier training as soon as possible. Then, back to the Massive. With the wormhole drive, he could do all that in a few degrees.

And then everything would be back to normal. He wouldn't have to see Zim again until the next batch of eggs were ready, as long as nothing else went wrong.

If Purple was lucky, he figured he might get two weeks of peace.

xxx

Zim's thoughts were clear enough during his second dance with Tallest Purple that he could notice a few things that had changed from the previous one.

The first thing he noticed was, well, his thoughts were clear. This was a rare occurrence when he was dancing. There were probably a couple of reasons for this: for one thing, he was still slightly achy all over, and for another, he was still getting used to his new body and couldn't get completely into the dance. Why did he have to dance right after having surgery all the time?

The second thing he noticed was that Purple was treating him differently. Not just through the dance, but in general. Before the latest surgery, he'd looked down on Zim much more, both literally and figuratively. Now, when he looked at Zim, it wasn't _always_ with a grimace or an annoyed scowl. And he wasn't dancing as if he wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, like last time.

Zim wasn't quite clear-minded enough to let his ego take control of the situation and come up with something grand about how Tallest Purple was obviously amazed by Zim's mind-blowing dance skills. He could only manage one, much simpler, thought: Tallest Purple was treating him like an actual Irken again. Like an Irken citizen.

Of course, most of that had to do with the fact that Zim now went up to Purple's mid-thigh in height, rather than being just slightly shorter than his knee. Still, he could imagine it was because Purple simply had greater respect for his skills, dancing or otherwise.

The third thing he noticed was that Purple apparently needed to recharge his Pak quite badly. The fourth was that the "Zim isn't allowed in the Spittle Runner unless it's for dancing" rule had been relaxed. Zim discovered both of these things at the same time, shortly after they finished dancing.

Purple pushed himself up, still half-crouched over Zim, his eyes wide and half-focused and his Pak's air filters whirring as he tried to get more air. "Did we do it right this time?"

"Eh?" Zim tried to remember. Last time, they hadn't quite been sure how to deal with the new fertilizer/layer aspect to dancing, and had needed to try a couple of times (to Purple's chagrin) before they were fairly certain that they'd actually made any eggs. Dancing was one thing; reproduction was quite another. "I... think so."

Zim raised his upper body on his elbows. This was the part where Purple would tell him to leave, and Zim would attempt to figure out where his clothes were. As soon as he'd recovered from the extension, Purple had told him to get up and get into the hangar to dance, so he hadn't seen his clothes since before the surgery. What had Tak done with them, anyway?

But Purple didn't tell him to leave. Instead, he mumbled, "Good," lay down again on the Spittle Runner's seat beside a very surprised Zim, shut his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

Zim blinked at Purple, stunned. "My Tallest?" No response. Purple was honestly fast asleep. He must not have recharged since before Tak arrived.

Purple made a sleepy noise, and wiggled a little closer to Zim, so their skin was touching; Zim quickly scooted back. This was simply _wrong_ on so many levels. Beyond the obvious breach of decorum going on here, Irkens don't sleep unless their Paks are very low on energy. Sleeping allows the Pak to conserve energy so when the Irken wakes up, they'll have enough energy to find a recharge chamber. The fact that Purple hadn't even remembered to kick Zim out of the Runner was even weirder.

But then again, he thought, who _wouldn't_ want to sleep with Zim?

The thought bolstered his confidence enough that he could think again. Okay, so Tallest Purple had fallen asleep beside him. That made Purple defenseless, which somewhat pleased Zim. He considered his options. He _could_ wake Purple up and make sure he got to a recharge chamber, and maybe receive some minor praise for the action—the virtuous option. He could also try to take advantage of the situation—the eviler option.

Grinning to himself, Zim shook Purple's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "I'm going to be an Invader again, okay?" Worth a try.

Purple's eyes half-opened. "Don' be dumb," he muttered sleepily. "Lemme 'lone, Red." And he was asleep again.

Red. Okay, so in his tiredness, Purple had somehow decided Zim was Tallest Red, which was probably the only reason Zim hadn't been kicked out of the Runner yet. He decided to take this as the highest praise.

He could still take advantage of his position, though. There were undoubtedly billions of Irkens who would murder their best friends in order to be where Zim was now: alone with a completely vulnerable Tallest. With the imagined vision of the jealous crowds firmly fixed in Zim's mind—he added Tak to the front row of envious Irkens—he smirked to himself, wrapped one arm around Purple's neck, and attempted to get comfortable next to him, half dance partner and half self-appointed guardian of the sleeping Tallest. It was awkward, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Zim briefly had a privilege that very few Irkens would ever enjoy.

When Purple finally did wake up and discover he wasn't alone, he proceeded to chase Zim furiously around the hangar several times, accusing him of sneaking back into the Spittle Runner after Purple had kicked him out, until Purple's Pak informed him that he was dangerously low on energy and had to recharge _immediately_.

Zim spent the whole chase laughing as if he'd just played the best prank in the universe.

xxxxx


	15. Smarter Tallest

A/N: Hey, did something happen? I got just a little over half of the usual amount of reviews last chapter. I'm not the kind of writer that threatens to hold a fic hostage if I don't get so-and-so many reviews, but I'd kinda like to know what went wrong. Did half of you lose interest in the middle of the chapter and leave? Was it extremely boring or something? Really, guys—the review button doesn't bite, and if I wrote something that sucked I'd like to know so that I can try to improve it in the future. And if it _didn't_ suck, well, it'd be nice to know that, too.

But, anyway. It's not like I'm here simply for reviews (if I was, I'd probably doing a ZADR fic. Or a Naruto fic...), so on with the chapter! I hope you enjoy it, and please remember to review and let me know what you think.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Smarter Tallest

xxx

From a message sent out to all Paks with Rank Steel 1 security clearance, or the top-ranked High Commanders and Taller Advisors: _Emergency message from the Massive. TOP PRIORITY:_

_This is Almighty Tallest Red speaking. No, Purple's not part of this. That's the problem._

_I made this message Rank Steel for a reason, so I'd better not see this on the news unless you want to be hauled to the Massive so I can personally toss you out the airlock. Keep that in mind._

_Almighty Tallest Purple is missing, and has been missing for over ten days. He was last seen on the Massive, claiming that he was going to get some snacks. He hasn't been seen since._

_Shortly before his disappearance, the Massive received a highly disturbing transmission. It was from Zim, if that tells you anything. Purple then made several severely "taboo" statements before simply vanishing. You know what I'm talking about._

_Do not, I repeat, do _not_ assume the worst. In all the time I've known Purple, he's never expressed any similar thoughts at all, and while Zim's transmission was very unsettling, it wasn't enough to actually induce _that_ kind of action. You are to believe that while in a slightly upset state of mind, his guard was down enough that alien enemies or Irken traitors were able to abduct him. Or he got lost. You know how he is._

_He vanished nearest to planet Vort. Search for any information that can be obtained there, and then spread out to neighboring planets. If anyone finds anything suspicious, contact the Massive directly with information._

_And be quick about it. Purple could be anywhere, and the Firmament is a big place._

xxx

In the time since Zim had stopped showing up at school, Dib had discovered the primary function of homeroom.

For a while, he'd spent the twenty minutes each day with his head on his desk, arms crossed, watching the door out of the corner of his eye, waiting endlessly for Zim to show up. But on the third day of Zim's absence, he'd almost gotten whiplash jerking his head up as the door opened to admit a student aide with a doctor's pass for Zita, and he'd finally concluded that he needed to find something else to do with his time. Better than having a mini heart attack every time the door opened.

So he'd started to do homework during homeroom. He could usually get most of his math done, and then during lunch finish it, or at least get enough done for a decent grade. But as the days wore by and Dib realized that he was getting less and less math done during homeroom each day, the true function of homeroom finally dawned on him.

It was to make up for starting school at 7:20 in the morning. If you didn't have your homework done before school started, you were fooling yourself to think you could get it done during the school day before it was due.

The true purpose of homeroom was to sleep.

So Dib slept.

The announcements usually kept him from doing more than dozing lightly for the first few minutes of class, but once the announcements had ended and Dib had stumbled to his feet long enough to mumble a pledge at the faded flag over the blackboard, he could put his head down and really fall asleep. Sure, sometimes he slept through the bell, but his next class was P.E. anyway, and they didn't care if you were a few minutes late. You just slapped on your ankle bracelet whenever you showed up and had the rest of class to run thirty miles. Dib had figured out how to hack his ankle bracelet so it registered five miles for every two he ran, so he didn't have much to worry about.

After the announcements' reminder of the optional Kill Santa Rally tomorrow, Saturday, at the memorial downtown (student council members and cheerleaders were required to attend), Dib got up, mumbled his pledge, and then dropped down again, nearly asleep before he'd even gotten his glasses off. He really needed to get more sleep, he thought. There was no excuse for him to get so little rest. It wasn't like he had a social life, and now there wasn't even Zim to prevent him from going to bed at a reasonable hour. Oh, well. Today was a Friday, so maybe he could sleep in tonight, as long as he got up early enough to get to the Kill Santa Rally...

Dib's sleep was rudely interrupted by someone who'd decided to show up halfway through class.

He flinched when the classroom door was slammed open, banging into the wall. He groaned, ignored it, and set his head down without opening his eyes. Probably some idiot who'd spent second period in the janitor's closet with his girlfriend and only just realized he was late for homeroom. Or maybe Zita, she'd had a lot of doctor's appointments lately.

He stopped ignoring it when the door slammer spoke.

"Fear no longer for my well-being, my fellow wormbaby classmates! I, Zim, triumphantly return!"

"What?!" Dib sat up so fast he almost fell out of his chair. He snatched up his glasses and attempted to put them on as he stood. "Zim! What are you doing here?"

Zim cackled derisively—it really was Zim, that laugh was unmistakable. "Foolish Dib-stink! Did you already forget that we share this class?"

"That's not what I meant! Where were you all this—" Dib finally succeeded in getting his glasses on. His jaw dropped. This was not Zim as Dib remembered him.

Whatever had been making Zim so fat a few weeks ago had apparently entirely transformed itself into height. Two weeks ago, Zim had barely come up to Dib's nose; now, Dib barely came to where Zim's nose should have been. He'd grown probably a foot and a half.

Zim apparently knew what Dib was thinking. He tilted his head back, and somehow managed to smirk _down_ at Dib from all the way across the room. "Isn't it obvious, _little_ Dib?" he said. "I was sick."

"Sick with what? Where's your doctor's note?" Ms. Airy snapped, barely peering sideways at Zim from where she was curled up on her swivel chair with a copy of _The Prince_.

"Er..." Zim stood straight, as if he were addressing a superior officer. "I forgot to bring my doctor's note with me, ma'am. I shall be sure to bring it to school tomorrow."

"Monday," she said.

"Yes, of course! Monday."

Zim's clothes didn't quite fit him anymore. His pink dress thing now looked almost like a normal, if slightly baggy, t-shirt, and there was a sliver of green skin exposed between his sleeves and gloves and between his pants and boots when he bent his elbows or knees.

"Fine. What were you sick with?"

Zim's eyes widened slightly. Obviously, he hadn't thought out this part of his excuse. "I was sick with... eh... it was... AIDS! Yes! I have been very ill with AIDS for the past two weeks. But I made a full recovery last night." Zim beamed.

"Oh, come on!" Dib turned to the rest of the class to appeal, as futilely as always, to their sense of reason. Maybe some of them had stayed awake during health last year. "Please tell me you don't believe him! Would any normal _human_ say something as completely ridiculous as that?"

Before the other students had time to mull that over, Ms. Airy sat up straight and glared sharply at Dib. "Are you calling AIDS ridiculous, Dib? Are you making light of the world's most horrible sexually transmitted disease?" Several students tittered at the word "sexually." Dib noticed Ms. Airy didn't jump on any of _them_ for making light of AIDS.

"No, Ms. Airy, of course not! I just meant that Zim—"

"Half my family died from AIDS, Dib," Ms. Airy snarled, before leaning back in her chair with _The Prince_ and muttering, "Good riddance."

In the back of the class, Alex raised her hand. "Ms. Airy, I thought you said half your family died from heat stroke while hitchhiking across the Atacama Desert?"

Ms. Airy grunted without looking up. "That was the other half."

Scowling, Dib sat down again, shooting a glance at Zim as he did. Zim had sat as well. He was slouching so that the top of the chair just barely reached the base of his neck, and then craning his head forward without un-slouching. Dib thought he was trying to find out if he could see his feet on the other side of the desk, now that he was taller. What a narcissist.

Dib pulled out a piece of notebook paper, and, very careful to make sure he didn't have any misspellings, wrote, "_Where were you really for the past two weeks, Zim??_" Fold, throw, wait for reply; it was as if Zim had never been gone. Nothing had changed but the subject of their arguments.

Zim snatched the plane out of the air, read it, and scribbled a short reply. Dib could guess what it was before he even got the paper plane: "_AIDS._"

"_Fat chance Zim! What about that freaky molt you went through?_"

Zim puzzled over the question a bit longer than Dib thought necessary, before writing a careful reply and sending it back. "_I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. REALLY, I DON'T. WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?_"

Dib shot Zim a baffled look, to find that Zim was giving him an equally baffled one in response. Did he really have to explain? "_Stop using caps!! It looks stupid! I'm talking about that thingy that made you swell up like a freakin beach ball two weeks ago. If that's not a molt I don't know what is. You leave school looking freaky, you come back looking taller. __That's__ what I'm talking about._"

Zim actually laughed out loud when he read Dib's response. The students around him gave him worried looks (a laughing Zim often meant imminent pain for those surrounding him), and Ms. Airy growled menacingly. Dib wondered what was so funny.

Zim's response was almost has short as his first, and just as obviously false. "_i punched puberty._"

"_The phrase is __hit__ puberty, you moron. And no you didn't."_

_"of course i did. puberty is what happens when a filthy little meatbaby becomes not so little, is it not? this is what happened to zim, as i am obviously one of you meatbabies."_

_"I don't believe that and you know it."_

_"you don't have to. not as long as everyone else does. XP"_

Dib glared at the paper. Zim was right, of course. And everyone would believe Zim. "_You're such a"_

The bell rang before he had time to write more. Dib crumpled the paper and stood up, prepared to just walk up to Zim and tell him what he was. But by the time he got across the room, Zim was gone.

Out in the hall, Dib could hear Zim's shouts, echoing from some other hallway; it sounded like he'd run into Keef and was feeling like being nice to him again.

Dib sighed irritably. Fine. Maybe he could bother Zim at lunch. If not, Dib could probably catch him before math and bother him about where he'd been the past two weeks, if Mr. Mudd didn't intervene.

That, unfortunately, would all be later. In the meantime, Dib trudged off to his second least favorite class (behind math), still imagining he heard Zim's laughs in the distance.

xxx

The Massive was the most beautiful sight Purple had seen in days.

He'd been gone... what, eleven, twelve days total? That was the longest he'd ever left the Massive at one time since becoming Tallest.

Dropping Fataz off on Irk had been no trouble at all. He'd just had to get past a few security gates to reach the underground training facilities, follow the signs until he found the nearest Historical training academy, located a line of new recruits getting registered, and stuck Fataz in at the back.

"Remember, you're asking to be transferred into Military training as soon as possible," Purple had reminded him.

Distracted by his surroundings, looking at everything as if attempting to memorize the place, Fataz had said, "Uh-huh. Yessir."

Purple had watched until Fataz reached the front of the line, a tentacle plugged into his Pak and registered him, and he entered the academy. Mission accomplished.

And now, at last, Purple could get back to doing what he was best at: hanging out with Red and bothering everyone they didn't like. Snickering as his Spittle Runner approached the Massive and the Irken Armada, he wondered if Pon was still sitting out in the Irken winter, waiting for the Massive to answer him. Purple had just been to Irk; it was still cold enough to freeze your antennae deaf.

He put on his uniform, contacted the Massive, and waited for an answer. When it came, he grinned. "Hey, Red. Can I—"

"_Purple?!_ Where are you?"

Purple immediately stopped smiling. "What do you mean?"

Red looked frantic. His back was perfectly straight, his antennae stiff, his arms crossed. "Are you okay?! What happened? I've been combing the whole Firmament for you!"

Something cold settled in Purple's gut. His eyes widened. Oh. He'd never told Red where he was going. He'd never told Red anything at all. "I'm fine! Really, I'm okay. I'm outside the Massive in my Spittle Runner."

Red nodded quickly, nervously. "Okay, good. Great. I'll meet you at the hangar. All right?" He ended the transmission.

Oh, hells and voids, what was Purple going to tell Red? That he'd had to take an emergency twelve-day trip away from the Massive and sorry, he couldn't tell Red anything? Purple tried to remember what the last thing he'd said to Red had been before simply leaving. His Pak whirred softly as he called up the memory...

He winced. He'd threatened to... to kill himself, hadn't he? Great. _Great._ Red had probably spent all this time wondering whether or not Purple had thrown himself out the airlock. Wasn't that perfect! Purple had better have a damn good excuse for where he'd been, if he wanted to make up for all that worrying he'd put Red through...

There. Practically the last thing he'd said: "_I'm gonna go get some curly fries. I'll be back later._" That was something. He could run with that.

Okay. He could do this.

xxx

Red was waiting outside the entrance to the hangar, his hover-belt off so he could pace and a small swarm of guards waiting up the hallway, when the entrance opened. The moment he saw Purple, Red reactivated his belt and rushed up to him. "Purple! You're okay?" He wrapped his fingers around Purple's upper arms, holding onto him as if he could vanish again at any moment. It was an incredibly intimate gesture, bare skin on skin, but hells, Purple was Red's best friend and he'd been _scared_ for him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I said I was fine, didn't I?" Purple said. He looked uncomfortable, glancing up and sideways to avoid meeting Red's gaze directly.

Red didn't care, as long as Purple was all right. All this time, he'd thought that Purple had been assassinated by the Resisty or kidnapped by the Screw-head Labor Union or that he'd... done something to... himself.

But that obviously wasn't the case. "Good!" He pulled Purple into a quick, tight hug, just to assure himself that his friend really was okay, and then let go of him and stepped back. The time for relief was over. Red had celebrated the return of his friend Purple enough, now the Almighty Tallest had to get down to the business of finding out where his co-ruler Tallest had been. "Where were you? Did something happen?"

"Nuh-uh, no way! I mean, how many things could happen to a Tallest?" Purple asked, backing a little away from Red and slouching over.

"Want a list?" Red said testily. He hooked his fingers in his hover-belt, the closest he could get in gauntlets and armor to planting fists on hips. "Seriously, Purple. Where were you?"

Still not meeting Red's eyes, Purple said, "Well, you remember when I said that I was gonna get some fries?"

"When you left? Of course I remember."

Purple nodded. "Yeah. I was doing that."

Red stared at Purple in disbelief. "You were... getting fries? For over a week?"

"Yes?" Purple smiled weakly.

This was insane. "And you needed your _Spittle Runner_ to do that?"

Purple laughed nervously. "Didn't you hear me say that I was going to get them on Foodcourtia?"

Red was stunned. "Wait wait wait. Let me get this straight. You're trying to tell me that you ran off, without telling anybody, twelve days ago, because you wanted to get _curly fries_ from _Foodcourtia?_ THAT'S what you're telling me?!"

Red thought he saw Purple gulp. He nodded.

For a moment, Red could only gape at him in shock. Then, he burst out in disbelieving laughter. "That has got to be the stupidest thing you've ever done!"

Purple winced. "Yeah, probably," he mumbled.

Red was still laughing. "That's just... I mean, I _know_ you're a bit of a ditz, Pur, but... oh, Irk. That's... wow!" It wasn't funny, not at all, but Red had to laugh anyway. If he didn't, he might just strangle Purple for sending him and every Irken on the Massive through an utter hell for the past twelve days. "You've done some dumb things, but _that_... wow. You've really outdone yourself."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm the stupid one." Purple pushed past Red, heading towards the bridge.

"No no, that's not what I—Okay, yeah, that _is_ true," Red said. Purple had always done worse in all their Military training, after all, so it wasn't exactly a secret that Red was the smarter Tallest. "But... seriously, Purple. Sometimes I wonder how you can be Tallest and still pull stunts like that." The statement was meant as an unspoken plea: "You're a Tallest, Pur, please _please_ don't scare me by pulling stunts like that." But, of course, he could never say something like that.

Purple apparently didn't get that message. He whirled angrily on Red. "Do you, Red?! You know, sometimes _I_ wonder how I'm a Tallest, too! Why don't _you_ tell me, Mister Tenth Law-Writer?"

"Wha?!" Red would never have thought Purple would react this way. "Hey—Pur! Wait!"

Purple had turned around and hovered off in a huff. Red hurried to catch up. "Look, you don't mean that, do you? I made that law for you, you know." No, that sounded all wrong, as if Red had done it as a favor and thought Purple owed him. True, Purple probably owed Red a lot of things, but not this. Red had made that law for himself. "I mean... I'm not as good a Tallest alone as both of us are together. Right?"

Purple didn't slow down, didn't look any less annoyed, but he did glance sideways at Red, as if considering his statement. "We don't do _that_ much," he muttered. "You could handle it yourself."

"Yeah, well, I'd be pretty bored the rest of the time, wouldn't I? See, that's why there have to be two of us," Red said, forcing a grin.

Purple grinned as well, and it was just as forced. He still wasn't looking directly at Red. "So... that's it? _That's_ what the law's for?"

Red had a sense that the conversation was very quickly going downhill. "Pur—"

Purple suddenly whirled to face him. "Sometimes you can be such a—such a—" He made strangling gestures in the air. "A really—thingy! That's what you are!" He turned away grumpily. "You've got no idea what kind of crazy stuff I've been doing for the empire."

Red gave him an uncomfortable look. "Okay, I give up," he said. "What kind of stuff _have_ you been doing?"

"The... crazy kind." Now Purple looked less angry and more secretive.

Red nodded, reluctantly accepting this. "The kind that maybe I'll hear about someday?"

"Maybe."

"I see." The heated fight was over, extinguished prematurely by Purple's sudden cold secrecy. Usually Red felt it was best to just let a fight run its course until it changed form into something more pleasant, but he felt this was a fight less likely to end in laughter and more likely to just burn them both out, especially if Purple wasn't even talking about half of whatever they were fighting over.

Purple looked burned out to begin with. There was a dimness, a tired hunger in his eyes that Red couldn't quite bring himself to look at. Red probably didn't look much better; twelve days of worrying about Purple hadn't done anything for his health. They both needed to recover.

Red hesitantly put a hand on Purple's shoulder—on his armor, not exposed skin this time—and said, "Hey, Purple? It's, uh... it's been a long few days, huh?" Well, it probably hadn't been for Purple, who had been hanging out on Slark-forsaken Irk-blessed Foodcourtia, of all places, but still. "The Techs can handle the bridge for a few degrees. Wanna go dance? Just a quick one, I think the Screw-head Labor Union's gonna call us sometime today."

"I dunno, Red. I—" Purple fell silent. A strange, horrified look crossed his face. "I... c-can't."

"You _what?_"

"I mean. Bad idea. If the Screw-heads call. R-right? Let's just get some... snacks, or something. Yeah. How 'bout cupcakes. You like cupcakes? I want cupcakes." He set off down the hall, towards the nearest lift that would take them to the tier with the Massive's food court. (It was directly over the engine and insanely hot. Red had decided that if he ever ran into the idiot Vortian Engineer that had put the food court over the engine, they'd become part of the engine's fuel.)

Red hurried to catch up to Purple. "What's wrong? Pur, are you okay?"

Purple looked stunned, horrified, almost traumatized, like he'd just been told he had diabetes and could never eat snacks again. "Fine. Just fine. I'm just... I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Um..." He wasn't going to talk. Red sighed. "If you say so."

He followed Purple silently to the food court, wondering why on Irk he wouldn't want to dance. He wondered—tried not to, but still wondered—whether or not there had been any validity to Purple's taboo threat, the day that he disappeared. He wondered whether or not he should be worried.

xxx

Purple wanted to blame this all on Zim. He needed to blame this on someone, and he wanted it to be Zim. It was so easy to blame things on him, and Purple's current predicament was, to some extent, tied to Zim.

However, it wasn't really Zim's fault. It wasn't the fault of anyone that Purple was willing to accuse. It was the fault of this stupid mission, it was the fault of his duties as Tallest. It was Purple's fault.

If he wanted to keep the mission a secret, he couldn't dance with Red. If he wanted to retain his dignity, he couldn't dance with Red or anyone else. He'd been too busy for the past few weeks to think about it, to even notice, but now that he stopped to think...

Anyone he danced with would immediately see what he'd done to his body. They would know about the surgery, and, at best, some random Irken would think Purple had a weird, creepy fetish. At worst, they would tell someone else—the entire Massive would hear the rumor—the whole empire would hear—and then Red would confront him, ask what was going on, and Purple would have to tell.

And the entire Irken Empire would know that the Almighty Tallest Purple had been dancing with Exile Zim, that he had created an offspring with Zim, and would they understand if he tried to explain that it had been for the good of the empire, that it had been to _save_ the empire?

_The Empire before the Irken, always. _Too bad not everyone had listened to Tallest Miyuki's philosophies and believed them like Purple did. Maybe she would have understood and supported him if she'd ever learned about the sacrifices he was making for his empire. But no Irken alive would understand.

That was why the empire could never learn about what he was doing. That was why not even Red could hear a thing. Purple couldn't do anything, anything at all, to endanger the secrecy of this mission.

That meant Purple would never be able to dance again.

No, he amended himself quickly. Not quite. There was still one Irken he could dance with and keep the modifications he'd done to his body secret. One Irken who already knew.

Exile Zim.

That was almost worse than not being able to dance at all.

xxxxx


	16. Epileprosy Virus

A/N: Oh, wow. Last chapter got a ton of reviews. Thank you so much! I really appreciate it! Glad to know I'm not losing my audience, heh...

By the way, for those of you who'll be wondering how on Earth "Fhtagn" is pronounced, I'm fairly sure it's one of those words not meant to be spoken by anything resembling a human. Regardless, I pronounce it "fih-TAG-un".

Enjoy the chapter, and please remember to review! Thanks!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Epileprosy Virus

xxx

From Dib's notes, Tues. Dec. 22: _Just today and tomorrow and then we're off for Christmas Break! Finally. I read somewhere that people used to get more than Dec 24 to Dec 31 off, but they changed that. I wonder why?_

_Zim's being confusing. Even though he's gone through that molt to make him taller, he's not using his height for anything so far other than gloating over shorter kids. (Which includes me. __I hate Zim__.) But the point is he's not doing evil stuff yet._

_Maybe he was telling the truth? Maybe he really isn't trying to take over Earth anymore? That'd be amazing. If Zim's no longer a conqueror, perhaps he could be like an ambassador or something. This could open up the possibility of peaceful human/Irken communications. And I could help make that happen! That would be AWESOME. I can see the headlines now: "Dib, first paranormal investigator to get the Nobel Peace Prize."_

_Then again, I'm talking about Zim. Probably not going to happen. The first thing I'll need to do is figure out why he's not trying to take over Earth anymore._

_Here's some more alarming news: he's starting to get sorta fat again. It's not really obvious since he's taller now, but when I look at him from the side I can definitely tell. What if this is another molt? What if he ends up gigantic?_

_This could be bad._

xxx

Life on the Massive did not go back to normal quite as quickly as Purple would have liked.

Irkens who previously had respectfully saluted or bowed to Tallest Purple when he passed and then gone back to their regular business now stopped whatever they were doing to look him over and ask how he was doing. It got to be so infuriating that on his fourth day back, Purple made the Bothersome Law:

_The Bothersome Law: (enacted in 29837/9/24.7 by Tallest Purple): Any Irken, alien, or other visitor or worker on the Massive who bothers Tallest Purple to inquire about how he is doing shall be thrown out the nearest air lock as soon as reasonably possible._

It wasn't exactly effective, but Purple did get to throw a lot of Irkens out air locks.

Red was even worse. He had yet to actually say anything, but Purple could feel that Red was treating him differently. He was just a little bit more careful with his questions, a little bit more suspicious of Purple's answers. Purple suspected that Red suspected he hadn't really been on Foodcourtia, but he couldn't accuse Red of suspecting that Purple was lying unless Red accused Purple of lying, or else he'd reveal that he _had_ been lying.

The whole thing was very confusing.

Purple tried to ignore the new tension on the Massive by thinking about other problems. He'd contacted the swarm of Royal Mechanical Technicians he had working on the Control Brains, and so far the Mech Techs reported that they'd found nothing flawed in the Brains' programming. Certainly nothing that would cause them to mistakenly mess up the random genetic mixes in the birthing facilities. Which meant, for the time being, Purple had to continue his mission with Zim.

Which brought up another problem...

"Approaching the Conveyor Belt Planet!" a Nav Tech declared.

"Huh?" Purple looked around. Red wasn't in the bridge, so he figured it was up to him to decide whether they stopped here or not. "Er... keep going on past it."

"As you wish, my Tallest," the Tech said.

With that distraction out of the way, Purple returned to his earlier train of thought. He needed to figure out a way to make sure the smeets would be safe until he could take them to Irk. The computer could hopefully handle getting the eggs away from Zim and into the SLP chamber's tubes, to protect them until they hatched and the smeets molted into adults. But after that, what was protecting them? Purple would have trouble getting out to Earth every thirty days to dance with Zim; he couldn't come back to Earth a few days after each dance to pick up the smeets, too. Somehow, they'd have to be kept safe until he went back to Earth to dance.

If Zim was still trying to blend in with the native population, he was too busy to watch the smeets; that "skool" thing he'd described seemed to take up a great deal of time. The computer wouldn't be much use in protecting them if they were outside their tubes, running around free. That left them under the oh so tender guardianship of Gir, the defective SIR Unit. Purple didn't trust anything that had spare change and candy for brains to guard _his_ smeets.

He needed to come up with a plan to make sure the smeets would be safe even if he weren't there. (And considering the smeets had Zim's genes, it would have to be a pretty damn good plan. Purple was surprised Fataz hadn't blown up the Runner on the way to Irk. Fataz had actually behaved perfectly fine, but since he was related to Zim, that was the surprising part.) Maybe another robot? But no, there weren't any robots designed to protect smeets. A SIR wouldn't do any good, they were programmed for espionage and minor defensive combat maneuvers...

The door to the bridge slid open. Several Techs glanced up, saluted, and went back to work. Had to be Red, then. "Hey, where were you?"

Red didn't answer. Purple looked over at him, and was surprised at how serious his expression was. "Red?"

"They sure are making weird snacks on Foodcourtia these days, aren't they?" Red held up an empty bag. It was labeled Doritos: Fiery Habanero.

Purple's eyes widened slightly. "Oh... yeah. Really weird. Really, really weird."

"Yeah..." Red turned the bag over, inspecting the white square on the back with all the statistics and percentages. Purple still wondered what that square was really for. It said Nutrition Facts, but it had information about protein and calcium and stuff. Who cared about that junk? "Are you sure you really got this on Foodcourtia? What language is it in?"

"I dunno," Purple said. "I mean, yeah, of course I got it on Foodcourtia! Where else would I have gotten it? But I dunno what language it's in."

"What restaurant?"

"I dunno." Purple couldn't meet Red's eyes. He was a terrible liar and knew it.

Red didn't give up. "No idea? Don't even know what other stores it was near?"

"Uh..." A realization hit Purple. He looked up at Red again, eyes narrowed. "Hey! Are you going through my trash? What's up with that, huh?"

This time, Red looked away. "Nothing," he said, looking out the Massive's view screen. "Just... looking."

"Hmph."

Red changed the topic. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"We passed the Conveyor Belt Planet," Purple said. "I decided we don't need to stop there. Okay?" He hoped Red thought it was okay; he didn't want to look like the stupid one again.

"Your call." Good enough, Purple thought.

Red smirked. "I wonder how the Screw-head Labor Union's doing."

Purple wondered what that had to do with anything. Then he remembered that the Screw-heads were the enslaved Alien Drones on the Conveyor Belt Planet. "Oh, yeah!" He snickered. Their labor union had recently come to the Tallest with their requests for improved working conditions. "They wanted to go from one money every five years and a five degree break every day to one money each year and a ten degree break, right?"

"Yep. What did we give them, a money every ten years and a five degree break every four days?"

Purple thought. "Wasn't it every eight days?"

"No, it was definitely four. But next time they complain, let's make it eight."

Purple was pretty sure it was eight, but didn't say anything. Instead, he said, "That'll teach them to try to peacefully negotiate with _us_, huh?"

"You bet." They chuckled.

After a moment, Red thoughtfully added, "Didn't we send Bob to the Conveyor Belt Planet?"

"Who?"

"You know. Bob. The Table-Headed Service Drone who we lost a bet... er, who tried to _swindle_ us out of six million monies. When Zim was on Hobo 13. Remember?"

"Oh yeah. That guy. Wasn't he a Slarkist?" Always crying and carrying on and... and crying. Had to be a Slarkist. "Pretty gross, if you ask me. Didn't we send him into a star with Zim?"

"He probably escaped when Zim did," Red said, shrugging. "Anyway, he came up to me about a week after we tried to kill him and started shouting and demanding those monies he thought we owe him. So I told an Advisor to deal with him, and he made Bob an Exile and sent him to the Conveyor Belt Planet."

"Oh. Okay." A fitting punishment. Bob would have it even worse on the Conveyor Belt Planet than he had as a Service Drone. Irken Drones were worked to exhaustion, but at least they were allowed the time they needed to recharge, and time to dance once in a while, since they couldn't afford snacks. But Alien Drones were literally worked to death. Compared to the Screw-heads' work, being a Service Drone was practically Frylord.

"Hey." Red grinned wickedly. "Three hundred monies say the Screw-heads tear Exile Bob apart for food."

Purple grinned back. "Three hundred say he'll go Virtuous Slarkist before then." That was one of the few acceptable ways to reference the S-word taboo. It was common knowledge (which, of course, meant it wasn't really true) that all Virtuous Slarkists eventually went suicidal.

"You're on."

This, Purple thought, would be interesting. Perhaps they should get some of the Techs to join in.

Now, who was going to bet on Bob surviving...?

xxx

"Today," Mr. Nub droned, "We'll be learning how to protect your computers from viruses. Since this is the last day before you get off for Christmas break," he pointed at the whiteboard, which read Tuesday, December 23, "and since we were supposed to be much further along than emails, this will count as your final. If you can protect your computer from a virus, then you'll pass. If not, you fail—yes, Mr. Zim?"

Zim lowered his hand. "What nonsense is this?" he demanded irritably. "Computers are inorganic structures! They are not vulnerable to your filthy viruses. Do you know nothing about the biology of germs?!"

Mr. Nub gave Zim a slow, pitying stare. "_Computer_ viruses, Mr. Zim. Digitally transferred viruses, also known as malware, or malicious software."

"Oh. Malware." Zim nodded. "You should have called it that."

"If you would _please _not tell me how to teach my class, Mr. Zim."

Zim shrugged noncommittally. As far as he was concerned, he could treat this fleshbag however he wanted. Besides being a human, Mr. Nub was now _shorter_ than Zim.

Mr. Nub cleared his throat. "Now then. Class, each one of you has received five emails in your school-approved email accounts. Each email has an attachment. Does anyone need a reminder of how to open attachments? Don't be shy." He paused, glancing expectantly about. "Good! One of these attachments has the Epileprosy virus. You have to isolate which one contains the virus without infecting the computer. Anyone who infects the computer fails—_yes_, Mr. Zim?"

Zim lowered his hand again. "Why's it called Epileprosy?"

"Because it combines the effects of epilepsy and leprosy," Mr. Nub said with gritted teeth. "Your computer has seizures, and then it falls apart. Any _other_ questions?" He waited. "_Good_. Now get to work—WHAT, Zim?"

"How are we to identify this Epileprosy?"

Mr. Nub stared at Zim a moment, then looked down at the papers on his desk. "The federally distributed Intro Tech class guide doesn't explain that part," he said, and shrugged. "Good luck, children."

The class collectively gulped.

Zim, however, was unconcerned. Malware, feh. Zim knew all about malware. He'd created half of the malware programs currently circulating through the computer systems in the Irken Empire. (Not that he'd admit it.) Isolating and annihilating this Epileprosy would be smeet's play.

Zim logged into his email account (a pitifully inferior method of communication, he thought), as across the room a female human let out a shriek. He turned to look. Her computer was trembling dangerously, its screen flashing like a strobe light show, and then, suddenly, it crumbled to pieces and collapsed upon itself. The female was left staring at a pile of smoldering plastic and circuitry.

Mr. Nub smiled tersely. "A failing grade for you, Jessica."

Zim snickered and turned back to his own computer. His grin slowly faded as he read the subject lines of his emails:

_"time for You to buy a Diploma?"_

_"Pleas validate mi insane ramblings"_

_"Did You Ever Consider Adult"_

_"i am a wealthy n!ger!an relative, recently dec34sed. How strange 1s that?"_

_"Asian chick gets her fortune cookie penetrated"_

Any one of these could be the insidious carrier of malware. Zim bit his lip nervously.

Behind him, there was another screech as a second student's computer fell prey to Epileprosy. This time, Zim didn't laugh.

It was an impossible task. Opening each email one at a time to test for the malware would be like that what-you-call-it game. Russian relay? This was insane. Stupid primitive technology...

But, wait. Why did Zim have to limit himself to Earthen technology? Especially when he had the most advanced technology in the known universe at his disposal. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, then snaked out a wire from his Pak and plugged it into one of the computer's USB ports. He could download each email into his Pak, open the attachments, find the malware, and identify which email was contaminated. The pitiful school computer wouldn't be affected at all! Instead, the Epileprosy would be in Zim's Pak.

Truly, a much more intelligent plan.

Zim downloaded the attachments into his Pak, then opened them. His Pak scanned the data in each, looking for anything suspicious. He frowned. He couldn't find any sign of a computer virus in any of these...

A student aide came into the classroom with a note, crumpled it into a paper ball, and threw it at Zim's head. Zim jerked up, looking around wildly. "Eh?! Who what—oh." He picked up the paper and flattened it. It was a pass to go down to the counselor's office.

A summons? But what could the counselor want with Zim? What was the counselor for, anyway? Zim turned to the student beside him and poked his arm. "Hey you. What is the function of the counselor-person?"

The student blinked dumbly a few times. "Uh... I think she... talks with... um, troubly kids."

"Troubly?!" Zim scowled. "Zim is not troubly!"

The student stared at Zim. "Umm... she talks with... failing kids and depressed kids and... uh... pregnant kids. Mmhmm."

Zim's eyes widened with fear. He clutched his stomach protectively—it was just starting to expand with the newest batch of eggs. "_Pregnant?_ But, how do they know?"

The student grunted. "I think there's... uh... a test for that. Mmyeah..."

Test? Curses! Zim had taken an Earth history test this morning! He'd thought the questions over Napoleon were deceptively simple. What a fool he'd been to assume all the documentaries he'd been watching were the cause for his ease, and not that it was all a trap.

"I have received a summons!" Zim said, waving his pass at the student's face in panic. "What must Zim to do be protected from this counselor?"

"Uh... hmm..." The student's face was starting to turn slightly red with the effort of sustained thought. "You gotta... um... go to the... counselor's office."

"Yes! Brilliant! I can convince her that her test was mistaken! All hope is not lost!" Zim leaped out of his chair, then bent over the student to hiss, "For your assistance, when the end of your world comes, I will ensure that your body is incinerated with full honors before being added to the mass grave of humanity." He sprinted out of the class, waving his pass at Mr. Nub as he left.

"Um... okay." The student scratched his head. His computer suddenly went into wild tremblings, and he clapped gleefully as it fell apart.

Zim never remembered that he still had the Epileprosy virus in his Pak.

xxx

Zim marched boldly into the counselor's office. "Do you know what I just _love_?" he asked. "Not reproducing!" He hopped into the chair in front of the counselor's desk. "How ya doin'?"

The counselor stared at Zim, frozen with a cup of coffee halfway to her lips. She quickly set it down. "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question. We're here to talk about _you_, not _me_." She politely chuckled as if she'd made a good joke, then held out a hand to shake. "Hi, you must be Zim. I'm Miss Fhtagn, the Joonier Hi Skool counselor."

"Uh-huh. Wonderful." Zim leaned away from the hand. "Anyway as you can see I am a perfectly normal child without any eggs growing in me—not that as a human I _can_ grow eggs of course—so I think this meeting is over bye!" Zim got out of his chair.

_**"Don't you dare leave,"**_ Miss Fhtagn growled.

A shiver went up Zim's back. "Yes, sir," he said meekly, and sat back down. This human, he noted, had shark teeth.

As soon as he was seated, the counselor was all smiles again. "We're here to help you, Zim. We can't do that if you leave," she said sweetly.

Zim nodded dumbly.

Miss Fhtagn flipped open a folder. "Let's talk about your absences," she said. "You missed over two weeks of school."

"Due to AIDS," Zim said. "And not due to my being pregnant. Because I wasn't!"

"Of course you weren't," Miss Fhtagn said. "And, speaking of AIDS, that's another issue I wanted to discuss with you. At your age, you really shouldn't be, if you'll excuse my slang, 'getting laid.'"

Zim blinked. There was that phrase again. "You know you're the first person so far to tell me _not_ to get laid?"

She nodded sympathetically. "I know how tough peer pressure can be, Zim. Feel free to come talk to me if you ever feel like you're being forced to do something you're not comfortable with."

"Uh... okay." Yeah, right. Like he would ever be coming back to this creepy shark-tooth human.

"But we're really here to talk about your absences," Miss Fhtagn said. "Did you know the school district has a five-absence policy?"

"Oh, sure!" Zim said. "Heard all about it."

The teeth were back. This time, Zim also noticed Miss Fhtagn's eyes went black. _**"Do not lie to me, mortal."**_

Zim squeaked. "I never heard of it before! I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Good." Miss Fhtagn beamed at Zim. "The five-absence policy states that a student can only miss five full days of school per school year. Any more than that, and he fails."

"Oh. Okay." Zim filed the information appropriately in his Pak: _Category: Earth and Humans, Subcategory: Useless Trivia._

Miss Fhtagn tried again. "That means you could be expelled."

Zim nodded placidly.

"Which means you'll never graduate."

Zim shrugged.

"And you won't be able to get a job."

Zim leaped out of his chair so fast it fell over. "What?! Zim, jobless? But I won't be able to seize control of the corporate world and gain power over all humanity without a job!"

"Oh, I know, we all have dreams like that," Miss Fhtagn said. "But you've already missed well over five days of school, Zim."

"How can I make up for it?" Zim demanded. "A time machine?"

"Don't be silly!" The counselor laughed. "Ah, if I had a soul for every student that tried to use a time machine to make up for absences..." She licked her lips. "However, Zim, there _is_ another way."

"Yes?"

"If you get an after-school job and can work twenty-five hours a week for the rest of the school year, we'll believe that you're a responsible student and excuse your absences."

"Ha!" Zim raised a fist in triumph. "Victory for Zim!"

"Just one more question," Miss Fhtagn said. "Did you take the POS 2000 test in sixth grade?"

"Eh? Sure."

"Well, you'll have to get your after-school job in the career track specified on your test. The school district's rules."

"Huh?!" Zim quickly dropped his victory pose. He had to get a job in fast food preparation? "But they fired me!"

"That's too bad. You'll just have to find another employer."

"But I—"

"Good. You have until February to find a job." Miss Fhtagn smiled and closed her folder. "You can go back to class now."

"But—"

_**"Get out."**_

Zim got out.

xxx

Mr. Nub's room was a giant wasteland of melted, smoking computers. The class stood at the front of the room, looking ashamed, while Mr. Nub surveyed the scene with pursed lips.

"I hope you're very proud of yourselves, children," he said. He pointed to a single undamaged computer; it was situated against the wall so that the rest of the classroom would be on the left side of the computer's user. "As you can see, one student didn't download the virus. That is why Zim is the only student among you who passes."

"But he didn't even do the assignment!" one student complained.

"Yeah!" another said. "He left at the start of class and never came back!"

"Which is why he passes," Mr. Nub said. "Remember, children, the best way to avoid computer viruses is to abstain from emailing. Always, always practice safe surfing."

Detecting several keywords found usually in seventh-grade health class lectures, half the class promptly zoned out.

Mr. Nub realized he'd lost his class's attention, and sighed. "Class dismissed. Happy holidays," he said. "And remember to finish opening your presents and head to your basements before Santa attacks."

xxx

This could be ruinous to Zim's (currently on hold but far from cancelled) mission. Without an Earth-job he'd never be able to obtain any sort of authority on this world without resorting to violence. Not that he had anything against violence, but it was always good for an Invader to have a backup plan.

However, he wouldn't _have_ a back up plan if he failed, was expelled, couldn't graduate, and thus didn't get a job on Earth.

But where could he work?

Zim needed to inform his Tallest of this dilemma.

He figured if the school district were already prepared to fail him for missing school, it wouldn't care if he missed a little more, so he headed back to his base. The moment he opened the door he shouted, "Computer! Contact the Massive! I need to speak to the Tallest!" He took off his wig and contacts while heading into the kitchen.

"Uh, is that a good idea, Master? Tallest Purple said—"

"Silence! You do not question me! This is an _emergency!"_ Zim leaped down the trash can chute and slid into the subterranean levels of his base. "Contact! _Now!"_

"If you say so..."

Zim stood in front of the nearest fairly large screen, and it turned on for him as the computer sent a transmission to the Massive.

xxx

"Incoming transmission from planet Earth!"

Purple didn't have to ask of he'd heard the Comm Tech correctly, because the bridge was suddenly filled with tense mutterings. This was the first message from Earth the Massive had received since the day Purple had disappeared.

"Earth? Zim's still alive?" Red asked, antennae perking up in interest.

"Let's pretend he's not. Don't answer it," Purple said. By Slark, what could Zim have _possibly_ done wrong this time?

Red glared at Purple. "Come on, not this again. Didn't you make a big enough fuss about answering Zim last time?"

Purple was about to remind Red that he'd had the right idea, but then realized that if they hadn't seen that transmission, Purple wouldn't have gone to Earth and Zim would have bled to death. Maybe this was important. Reluctantly, he said, "Fine. Answer it."

"Yes, my Tallest." The Comm Tech was greatly relieved that this time, both Tallest were giving him the same order. He was further relieved when he answered the transmission and saw that there were no bloody scalpels anywhere.

To Purple's dismay, Zim looked perfectly healthy. "My Tallest, I have urgent—" His gaze fell on Tallest Red. "Oops. Eh, never mind! Wrong number!" He frantically tapped on his keyboard, turned the screen pink, and on the second try actually managed to end the transmission.

The Techs looked at the screen and then towards the Tallest, baffled. Red turned to Purple. "Um, what was that?"

"Zim being a moron, obviously," Purple said nervously. The statement was truer than Red would know.

"Did he look kinda funny to you?"

Funny like a little bit wider and a lot taller? "He _always _looks kinda funny to me."

Red chuckled. "That's true... Hey, where are you going?"

Purple had to contact Zim. He doubted whatever Zim had been about to say was really so "urgent," but he wasn't taking any risks with this mission. "I'm just going to my quarters to get some snacks. I'll bring you some."

"O... kay. Thanks?" Red sounded slightly puzzled, but Purple couldn't explain and couldn't stand around to come up with a more elaborate excuse. He'd have to come back with some really good snacks to make up for this.

And Zim had better have a really good reason to call in the first place.

xxx

"That was kinda stupid," the computer said.

"Shut up. I didn't hear you telling me not to contact the Tallest!"

"But I _was_ telling you."

"Don't lie to your master!"

"I'm not..." The computer paused. "Incoming transmission from the Massive."

"Huh?!" Zim ducked out of sight of the screen. "Don't answer it! It could endanger the mission!"

"It's just Tallest Purple."

"Oh. Okay. Go ahead."

When the screen turned on, Purple was indeed alone, and he didn't look very happy. "Zim, WHAT do you think you were DOING?! Red almost—" He caught sight of Zim, still crouched down so only the top half of his face showed. "Almost... er..." He bit his lip to keep from giggling. "Never mind. Just... get up already," he muttered, then added, "Idiot," but Zim couldn't hear any annoyance in it. A good sign.

Zim straightened up and saluted. "My Tallest, I apologize for contacting you and then having to cut off so quickly. I'm sure you are quite concerned for me." (Purple went "Hah!" Zim ignored it.) "I've run into some difficulties—"

"Are the eggs in danger?" Purple interrupted.

"Eh? No."

"Fine." Purple sat on a couch, slouched down, and put on a bored expression. "Then hurry up already."

For a while, Zim attempted to explain everything; the five-day policy, the after-school job, the POS 2000 test, McMeaties—

"Whoa whoa wait. Enough Earth jargon, okay?" Purple said irritably. "Look, does any of this have anything to do with the egg mission?"

"Er... It has to do with _a_ mission..." Zim said carefully.

"But not the egg one?" Purple rolled his eyes. (It's rather difficult to actually tell when an Irken rolls his eyes; it's just in the way light shines through them. Enough Irkens had rolled their eyes at Zim that he could easily recognize the expression.) "What _other_ mission do you have?"

"You know. The mission I'll be going back to when this one's over. The... planetary conquesty one." Zim smiled hopefully.

Purple glared at Zim. "Come on! You're not an Invader anymore, okay? For now you're an Exile. Get used to it."

Zim latched on to only one phrase. Antennae perked up, he repeated, "'For now'?"

"Uh..." Purple looked away from Zim. "I didn't mean that. I meant you're an Exile. Just an Exile. Understood?"

"Understood," Zim said. "For now."

"Zim, look. I don't care about the stupid job rules they have on Earth. I don't know why _you_ care, either."

"But the _mission—"_

"The _only_ mission you have is to make eggs," Purple said firmly. "If you want to do anything else, _I don't care!_ It's YOUR problem."

"But—"

"No! If you even THINK about asking me for help on ANYTHING except our mission, I'm blocking your transmissions! The only way you'll be able to contact the Massive is if the Massive contacts you first."

Zim shut his mouth and glared resentfully at Purple. This was the kind of thanks he got for taking on a mission that was supposed to save the Irken Empire?

"Just stick to your _real_ mission, Zim. Don't contact me again unless there's an emergency." Purple almost ended the transmission, but paused and looked at Zim again. "Your uniform's too short, isn't it?" he said. "I'll send some more."

The screen went blank.

"That went well," the computer said.

"Are you insane?!" Zim said. "That was horrible!"

"Yeah... but the Almighty Tallest is sending you some new clothes."

"Feh." Zim walked to the toilet lift. "Where's Gir?"

"In the SLP chamber."

"What, _again?_ Tell him to meet me in the living room." What was Gir doing, spending so much time in the SLP chamber these days?

Zim reached the SLP chamber just before Gir, who leaped into the room through the couch cushion. He landed in front of Zim, saluted with optics red, and said, "Prepared for duty, _sir!"_

Zim looked at the ripped cushion and sighed. "You're going to have to fix that later."

Gir's optics went back to normal. "Okie-dokie!"

Putting on his wig and contacts, Zim said, "Gir, put on your disguise. We are going to find..." he paused for dramatic effect, "a _fast-food job!"_ Gir squealed in delight. "And if you're good, maybe I'll let you go to Krazy Taco and get some fajitas or something."

Humming, Gir wiggled into his costume. "I don't wanna get those! They got beef!"

"Huh?" Zim stared at Gir. "But you like beef." He still vividly remembered coming home to discover Gir had buried the living room floor under a layer of beef enchiladas.

Gir responded, quite solemnly, "I was young and foolish once."

Zim stared at Gir. Now that was something he'd never expected to hear out of his henchman.

"Now I'mma king of the mini-tires! No more beef!"

"O... kay? What's a mini... never mind. I don't want to know." He took a dog leash out of his Pak and attached it to Gir. "Now! Let us show these pitiful human job-dispensers just how superior Irken food preparation is. I shall have a job by nightfall!" Zim marched out of his base with a triumphant laugh, dragging Gir along with him.

As it turned out, Zim did not have a job by nightfall. In fact, he'd not only been rejected by 23 fast food joints, but he'd also gotten himself banned from ever setting foot in a Krazy Taco for the rest of his life. (It wasn't _his_ fault his perfectly normal dog had spilled their vat of nacho cheese over the club meeting of Lactose Intolerants Anonymous, but did the manager believe him?)

But all in all, Zim thought, a good start.

xxxxx


	17. Help Wanted

A/N: Ye gods, Friday's almost over! It's not even Friday anymore in some parts of the world! ... Is anyone reading this from the parts of the world where it's not Friday anymore? Oh, well, by the time most of you see this it'll probably be Saturday where I am, too, so that's irrelevant. Anyway, I'm sorry this is a bit later than my updates have usually been. I've got an arseload of exams over the next week, and studying is taking up an inordinate amount of time. 'Tis ridiculous. But luckily I'm still ahead in writing this (I'm working on chapter 23 right now), so there shouldn't be too much trouble there.

Anyways. Do enjoy this chapter, and please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Help Wanted

xxx

From Dib's notes, Thurs. Jan. 1: _Oh man, I got NO sleep last night! I was going to just stay up to midnight, but then I got to see the battle between Father Time and Baby New Year. See, Baby New Year was trying to overthrow his father so that the next year could get started. This New Year was kinda wimpy, so Father Time almost had him beat. They were shooting lasers at each other and all sorts of crazy stuff until three AM. If I hadn't used Tak's ship to get in close and steal Father Time's scythe, the new year might not have even started! Man, that was twice as exciting as the Santa attack._

_Okay, so here are my resolutions:_

_1) Make sure everyone knows that if it wasn't for me, we'd still be in last year._

_2) Convince Gaz that she's nearsighted and take her to get glasses. Maybe if I tell her it'll let her see video games on TV screens instead of just handheld games, I can get her to do it with only a few injuries. All that squinting can't be good for her._

3) If Zim really is not taking over the Earth, find out how I can visit one of his worlds. From the ones I've managed to find out about, I'm gonna try for Judgmentia. Those Control Brain thingies sound cool.

4) Find out why the school district thinks we should go to school the day after New Year's Eve. The students are asleep and the teachers have hangovers. What's the point?

_More big news: in homeroom today, we found out that Zita's pregnant. We were pretty shocked. Okay, I was shocked. No one else seemed to care. (I've got to switch to another school.) Apparently she got too close to that crazy mailman last summer. Yeah, THAT crazy mailman. I heard someone say Zita's still in therapy for it._

_She's a little over five months along, based on when the mailman incident happened, so she's been hiding it all this time. That's why she always wore such baggy clothes last semester, I guess. But she's not wearing baggy clothes anymore, and she's trying to act like she doesn't care that everyone knows now. Okay, so she's always treated me like a freak with everyone else, but I still feel kinda bad for her. Now she's the one being treated like a freak._

_Zim's getting bigger again, by the way. I bet it's another molt thing. And I just noticed something funny. Zim looks kinda like Zita. Zim, pregnant. Now THAT would be hilarious._

xxx

Dib wasn't an idiot.

A week ago, Zita had come to school quite obviously pregnant. Since then, her looks hadn't changed very much. Zim's had. He was definitely gaining weight—or something—and it was obvious enough that Dib almost imagined he could see a size difference every school day. Whatever was happening now was definitely the same thing that had happened just before Zim had suddenly gotten tall.

However, there were several differences now. For one thing, Zim wasn't as small as last time, so all the weight he was gaining wasn't turning him into a beach ball. For another, he wasn't gaining quite as much weight this time around. Now, it didn't look anything like fat. The weight he was gaining was concentrated in a specific area, right around his stomach, and wasn't blobby like fat; it was solid and round.

With growing alarm, Dib began to compare Zim and Zita every time they were near each other. The only conclusion he could draw was as obvious as it was disturbing.

There was no other possibility. Zim had to be...

Eugh. Dib shuddered at the thought. Zim was a very creepy creature, and presumably had very creepy biology. That didn't mean Dib wanted to _think_ about it.

But still, he had to know for sure.

He'd brought lunch from home, as always, but hadn't eaten it. He was watching Zim in the cafeteria; Zim was once again stuffing his face with junk food. This time, there were a few normal Earth snacks mixed in with his alien ones. Perhaps odd food cravings?

He had to find out what was really going on with Zim. With a sigh, Dib reluctantly stood up, trudged over to Zim's table, sat down across from him, and bluntly said, "You're pregnant."

Zim's physical reaction was all it took to confirm Dib's suspicions; his eyes were wide with fear and shock. At Dib's accusation, he had jerked his knees up and curled his back forward, crossing his arms protectively; he was almost instinctively defending whatever was growing inside him. "How... N-no! No, of course not! That's utterly ridiculous!" "You should know as well as I that such a thing is impossible."

"Come on, Zim. It might be impossible for human males to have babies, but that doesn't mean _you_ can't."

"For your information, _no_ Irken is born with any of the icky organs needed to make offspring," Zim muttered stiffly. "And they're not called bay-bees. They're smeets."

"Okay... 'Smeets.' Whatever." Dib wondered if Zim was just trying to demonstrate how ignorant Dib was about Irkens, or if he was indirectly confirming Dib's theory. "So, what, you gave up your mission to take over Earth to start a family instead?" He realized as the words were coming out of his mouth how preposterous the suggestion was. He almost laughed at himself simply for saying something so dumb.

Instead he watched Zim, waiting for his reaction. Zim didn't say anything. He still looked scared; that same paranoia he always demonstrated when someone was moving too close to his grand alien secrets for his comfort. Now his jaw was clenched in anger as well, and he was glaring at the cafeteria table. He finally hissed, "It's none of your business, Dib-shit."

Dib-shit. Okay, that was a new one. Scowling, Dib stood up to leave. "Well excuse _me_ for asking a question. Jeez, I was just curious." Not that curiosity had ever been a good enough excuse for Dib to pry into Zim's business before, but at least he wasn't threatening to send photographs to Mysterious Mysteries this time around. He began to head back to his seat where he'd left his lunch and backpack.

That, as usual, had been a worthless conversation. Now that Dib knew Zim really was going to have a baby—er, a smeet—Dib had even more questions. Maybe he could sneak into Zim's base again, find something else out that way. Maybe if he bothered Zim later, Dib could get him to slip up and reveal something. There _had_ to be a reason for all this, a better reason than "It's an alien thing." Dib suspected he wouldn't be getting much sleep until he found out what it was...

"This is all I get in exchange for my mission."

Dib pivoted around to face Zim. "Come again?"

Something in Zim's eyes had shifted, like a glass sculpture melted down and remade, slightly different; the anger remained, the fear remained, but Zim was looking at Dib differently and the hostility had dissolved into nothing. "My leader informed me that I'm not to take over Earth. Instead, I have to do _this."_ Zim glanced down at his stomach, eyes narrowed in anger. "Don't think I did this gladly, Earth-boy. I'm merely performing my duty to the empire."

And suddenly, Dib was no longer Zim's enemy but his confidante. He realized how alone Zim really was; on this entire world, the only ones who knew that he was an alien were Gir, Gaz, and Dib. Even so, he'd never done anything like this before. Zim hadn't exactly come to Dib to complain whenever one of his evil plans failed.

However, Zim _did_ like to complain whenever something he didn't like happened. He supposed that previously Zim had contacted his own people to rant whenever there was a hitch in his mission, probably his leaders. But if they were the ones that had told Zim he had to start reproducing (for whatever insane reason), then Zim couldn't rant to them anymore.

"Er... That's... not good, I guess," Dib said awkwardly, sitting down again. What was he supposed to do, comfort Zim? His not-currently-but-all-the-rest-of-the-time enemy?

"Of course it isn't," Zim said bitterly. "I almost died once, I had to get two surgeries, and I had to let Tak strap me down to a metal table!"

"Wait, Tak did _what?"_ Dib feared that he'd just gotten a horrifying glimpse into Irken reproductive rituals.

Zim ignored him and went on with his rant. "And I've got to get a stupid Earth food preparation job, and Keef has started calling me in the middle of the night, and I can't even contact the Massive anymore without getting my transmissions blocked!" Zim let out a frustrated growl. "Zim is no filthy primitive layer! I'm a highly trained Irken Elite Invader. I _hate this mission!"_

"Um. Wow. Sorry?" Dib wondered how he should be reacting to this. Taking notes might be a good idea, in case Zim said something important. But Zim might attack Dib if he did something like that, given his mood.

The bell rang, startling them both. Wordlessly, Zim stood, scooped up his uneaten snacks and put them in his back pod thingy, and headed towards the exit.

Dib couldn't let Zim leave now, not when he'd gotten on his good side—sorta—for the first time ever. He had to keep the lines of communication open, so maybe he could use them to learn more about Zim's species later. "Er—wait! Zim!" He vaulted on one hand over the table and jogged to catch up with Zim. "Listen! Since you're not trying to take over my planet any more, if you, er, need any help or something... lemme know, okay? With the, the smeets. I mean," Dib added before his common sense kicked in, "I've never seen a baby alien before." He bit his lip. Oh, _that_ was brilliant. Now he sounded like some paranormal-obsessed geek. Which he was, but that didn't mean he wanted to come across that way.

Zim didn't answer for a moment. Then he stopped walking and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Dib stopped in front of Zim, peering up at him (up, now that was an unwelcome change). "Something about pain?"

Only slightly louder, Zim said, "Do you have... anything to... stop the pain? When I lay the eggs?"

Dib made another mental note: Irkens come from eggs. And yet they still have long pregnancy stages. Irkens had to be weird, didn't they? "What, like painkillers? You mean your mighty Irken race hasn't even invented pain killers yet?"

Zim glared at Dib. "Of course we have! But painkillers are typically only issued to Irkens on missions where they'd be at risk for torture. I can't risk contacting my leader to ask for some."

"Huh..." Dib wondered if human painkillers would even work on Irkens. Since many of them were liquid-based, that could be a problem... Then again, it'd be good research to just hand over a bunch to Zim and find out which ones worked and which ones didn't. That could uncover all sorts of stuff about Irken anatomy. "Sure, yeah. There are some in my dad's lab. I could get some."

"Good." Without so much as a thank-you, Zim pushed past Dib as if he weren't there, and left the cafeteria.

Dib had figured Zim wouldn't show any gratitude, anyway. Well, fine. Dib wasn't being nice because he liked Zim, he was just doing his duty as a paranormal investigator. The same way Zim was doing his as a... breeder-thing.

Dib grimaced and resolved not to think about a pregnant Zim anymore. As a member of the Swollen Eyeball Network he was pretty open-minded, but there are some concepts that very few normal junior high boys can think about without getting squeamish. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Dib was more normal than one might think.

xxx

"How do I get a job?"

Dib groaned, rubbing his eyes and squinting into the kitchen; he couldn't see the clock from the living room without his glasses, but he expected it would be somewhere between two and four AM, since that was the only time he was almost always asleep each night. Gaz had yelled at him until he'd woken up and gone downstairs to answer the phone. He hadn't checked the caller ID before picking it up; now he wished he had. _"Zim?_ Is that you? What the hell?"

"Who _else_ would it be, Dib-stink?"

"At this hour, it's either you or that Brazilian vacuum cleaner telemarketer," Dib muttered, letting his eyes slide shut into a myopic squint.

"Oh yeah, _him._ Hoo boy, he's annoying. Anyway. I need a job. How do I get one? _Tell Zim."_

"You called me in the middle of the night for job-hunting advice? Do you have any idea what time it is?!"

"By _your_ pitiful measurements of time, it's 2:38 AM." This didn't seem to concern Zim at all. "Now, about that job..."

"C'mon, this is stupid! I was asleep!" Dib groaned again. "I dunno. Try looking for 'help wanted' signs or something."

For a moment the line was silent. "_Hunh_?"

"What, you don't know what a 'help wanted' sign is?"

"Of course I do!"

Yeah. Sure he did. "Restaurants and stuff put signs that say 'help wanted' in their windows. It means they need more employees. If you want a job so bad, go to one of those, okay?"

"Hmm..." There was a click on the phone line. Had Zim just hung up?

"Hello?" No response. Grumbling in annoyance, Dib hung up the phone and headed back upstairs, eyes still squinted at his blurry surroundings. He was really starting to regret offering to help Zim with _"anything."_

xxx

Over the next week or so, Zim continued to ask Dib for random help, although Dib eventually convinced him that humans are incapable of giving useful advice between the hours of 11 PM and 5 AM. Apparently, instead of concluding that Dib was now a benevolent helper (which, really, he wasn't), Zim had decided that Dib was his personal information slave (which he also wasn't). Dib was about ready to tell Zim to just start minding his own business again when, without warning, Zim was absent on a Thursday midway through January.

Dib spent the whole day paranoid, wondering what had happened, although he tried not to immediately suspect that Zim was off doing something evil. Maybe Zim had skipped school to go looking for a job again. Or maybe this had to do with the pregnancy. How long was an Irken gestation period, anyway?

He found out what was really going on after school. As soon as he and Gaz got home, the phone started ringing.

Gaz marched past it and into the kitchen without so much as glancing at the caller ID. "It's for you."

"How do you know that?"

She snorted derisively. "Because it's not for me."

She had a point. Dib went to the phone, checked the number—yep, Zim again (number: "BLOCKED," caller name: "NORMAL HUMAN")—and answered. "What is it this time, Zim? And where were you today?"

"Silence! Zim demands names!"

For a moment, Dib didn't understand. "What? Why? What kind of names?"

"Preferably good ones but considering the average intelligence of your species, I'll take what I can get." Zim sounded annoyed. "All I can think of are pitiful vampire names. I refuse to allow one of my offspring to be named Gwenhwyfar!"

Gwenhwyfar. What had ever happened to nice, simple vampire names, like Vlad or Bane? "Why should I come up with a name for you? I've got better things to do with my afternoon."

"Shut up!" Zim shouted. Dib jerked the phone away from his head, wincing. "You should be honored, Dib-stink!"

Dib was about to retort, but stopped, reconsidering. Here he had the opportunity to name an alien. Forget if it was Zim's offspring or not, the bigger point here was that whatever name Dib chose now would be the name of an extraterrestrial being for the rest of its life. Dib might be the first human _ever_ to name an alien.

"Okay! Sure, great, names. Uh... boy or girl?"

"Eh? I dunno. Hey, COMPUTER!" (Dib had to jerk the phone away again. Zim hadn't lowered his phone before shouting.) "What gender are my offspring?" Pause. "Wow! Neat. They're all three genders."

_"Three?"_ What was up with Irkens?!

"Yeah. XX, XY, and YY. That makes three!"

Dib was pretty sure YY wasn't an option. "Uh... Don't you need at least one X chromosome to survive?"

Zim paused. "Nonsense! Zim's glorious offspring need no pitiful X! They shall be fine!"

Somehow, Dib doubted that.

A lecture his dad had given him in fifth grade came back to him. (When Professor Membrane educated his kids about the birds and the bees, he didn't stop at sex. He went all the way from genetics to the physiological reactions behind lust. Dib hadn't been able to look at a girl for weeks.) If Zim was male, then he had XY chromosomes. For him to even make a baby—egg, smeet, whatever—with YY chromosomes, his genes would have to be mixed with the genes of another male...

Horrified, Dib said, "You're _gay?"_

"Don't be silly, Earth-boy. Zim is not THAT happy over his offspring's genders."

"No, no, I mean, you're... er, homosexual?"

Gaz leaned into the living room from the kitchen, holding a frozen slice of pizza, eyebrow cocked curiously.

Zim laughed. "Of course not! As if any sane Irken could be homosexual," he said derisively. "Too limiting!"

Gaz snickered. Dib wondered if she was hearing the conversation. It was possible. "Never mind," he said, trying not to think about what Zim meant. "You said you need names, right?"

"Yes, yes I do!"

"Okay..." Dib bit his lip. Now that he had the chance to name something, he was drawing a blank. The only name he could think of was Gwenwy-something. "Uh... gimme a sec." Dib lowered the phone and hissed, "Gaz! Do you have any baby names?"

She widened her eyes slightly to glare at Dib. "What do you think I am, some kind of future housewife?"

Dib gulped. "No, never! I just thought... er... you... might have a list of names to... name your video game characters."

Gaz's eyes squinted closed again, and Dib sighed in relief. "I've been saving the name Vio," she said, shrugging.

"Okay!" Dib lifted the phone again. "Hey Zim, what about—"

"I don't think you heard me," Gaz said menacingly. "I'm _saving_ that name."

"Um... never mind." He lowered the phone again. "Now what?"

"I don't care!" Gaz rethought her answer, and then said, "Bella."

Dib lifted the phone. "Bella!" He mouthed at Gaz, _"Our mom?!"_

Gaz shrugged. "We don't know that for sure." Uncle Denny said their mother's name was Bella, although their dad never addressed the topic. He'd never officially confirmed that Uncle Denny was their Uncle, either. Well, Dib believed Uncle Denny. He'd shown Dib a picture of Bella once; she sure looked like she was related to him and Gaz.

"Bella..." Zim said, slightly distastefully. "What kind of a name is 'Bella'?"

"A female one. A _good_ female one," Dib said defensively. He wasn't going to let Zim make fun of his supposed mother's name.

"Hmm... Feh. It'll do," Zim said. "But I don't think I'll be requiring your assistance for any more names." Click. Zim had hung up.

Dib set the phone down, sighing. "I guess that went okay," he muttered. So, one of Zim's male pregnancy offspring was named after Dib's mother. Could be worse...

"I think it went _very_ well," Gaz said, just barely smirking.

Dib looked at her suspiciously. "Why?"

She turned away to return to the kitchen, but not quick enough to hide a full-blown evil grin. "Because I'm now the first human to ever name an alien baby."

"What are you talking about? I'm—" Dib stared speechlessly at his sister's back. "You... DAMMIT!"

"That's for trying to make me get glasses!"

Dib groaned. He always had to choose the hardest New Year's resolutions.

xxx

For once, Zim had gotten Purple's instructions right.

He hadn't contacted the bridge of the Massive. He'd contacted Purple's quarters at about 174 degrees, well within Purple's instructions of 160 to 180 degrees. Best of all, Zim hadn't wasted Purple's time with some random Earth-babble nonsense about a mission he didn't have.

Purple wondered if it was sad he was impressed that Zim had managed to contact the Massive correctly.

Zim saluted smartly. "The eggs have been laid and put in the SLP chamber successfully, my Tallest!" he said. "Another victory for Zim!"

"No mess-ups?" Purple asked. "Computer?"

Before Zim could answer, his computer interrupted. "Nope. They're all safe."

"Good. How many are there?"

"Four, my Tallest!" Zim said proudly. "Every one of them healthy!"

"Actually, two of them don't have any X chromosomes, Master. They're gonna die before they hatch."

"Silence!"

"So, two good ones?" Purple sighed. He'd expected more... "Well, it's a start."

"Indeed it is. And an excellent start!" Zim said.

"I'll be on Earth in five or so degrees," Purple said. "I guess we've got to start on the next bunch."

"Oh." A bit of the enthusiasm drained out of Zim's eyes. "Yeah."

Purple gave him a suspicious look. "What? You don't want to dance with me?" Zim had been all excited the first time. And what kind of Irken _wouldn't_ want to dance with a Tallest? Purple didn't think he was being conceited, but it was just a fact that everyone wanted to do the Tallest.

"No, that's not it!" Zim said quickly, waving his hands as if to banish the thought. "I merely... I... uh..."

"Master doesn't want any more eggs."

Zim scowled towards the source of his computer's voice. "Hey! Whose transmission is this, anyway?"

"Is that true, Zim?" Purple asked sharply.

"Eh..." Zim crossed his arms and looked down. "The empire before the Irken, my Tallest."

Which meant it was true but Zim didn't want to say so. "I see." The last time Zim had quoted Miyuki, it had been when he'd said that he would do this mission even if he weren't an Invader anymore. Purple had briefly considered respecting Zim, then. Now he felt slight twists of unease in his squeedilyspooch—not the kind that meant his mood was about to take a turn for the worse unless he got some sugar into his system, but still something close. Very close.

No. Purple _refused_ to feel guilty. If Zim was suffering because of this mission, then good! Purple was suffering too! And he was risking everything to do this. If anyone found out about what Purple was doing, his reputation would be destroyed. Even though he was the Tallest, that would be the end of any admiration he'd garnered. Not even Red would ever respect him again. What was _Zim_ risking, huh?

Well, besides his physical well-being, and thus his life. Besides his ability to blend in with the natives of Earth, and thus his security among enemies, and thus his life _again_. Besides that, he was risking nothing, wasn't he?

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Purple said grudgingly. The apology tasted bitter. "But we don't have a choice. The mission has to be done. I mean, I don't want to do this either—"

"What?" Zim said indignantly. "You don't want to dance with Zim?"

Purple stared at Zim in disbelief. "You know what? Never mind. Apology withdrawn. You're stupid. I fear for the intelligence of our offspring. But I'm gonna be on Earth in about five degrees to make _more_ of them, so be prepared."

"Yes sir, my Tallest!" Zim saluted. "But seriously, why wouldn't you want to dance with—"

Purple terminated the transmission. In truth, he _did_ want to dance with Zim. Well, not necessarily with Zim—with anyone, really. He wasn't in a picky mood. Irkens don't typically go four weeks at a time without dancing, which was exactly what Purple had to do now unless he wanted someone to find out about his mission.

His mission. That's what Invaders called their job, never anything more specific, just "the mission," "my mission." Purple wondered if he was starting to feel the way an Invader did; he was trying to deceive an entire civilization about what he was up to, trying to convince them that he HAD no mission, that he was perfectly normal, just like any of them. Never mind that the civilization he was deceiving was his own empire. It was just as tiresome, trying to strike that delicate balance between pretending he had nothing to hide, and keeping the ignorant masses from finding out the truth.

Purple wondered if this was how all Invaders felt, struggling between keeping socially close but emotionally distant from the population surrounding them. Purple wondered if this was anything like what Zim was going through on Earth, surrounded by strange aliens who treated dancing like documentaries and animals like food—er, probably not. It wasn't like Purple was among aliens, but still... Purple wondered if this was even beginning to compare to what it must feel like to be completely excommunicated from the Irken Empire.

He forced himself to stop thinking about Zim and to start thinking about his _real_ mission; after all, he consoled himself, Zim deserved to be exiled on Earth, and that was the truth. For now, Purple had to get down there, dance with Zim, and get back to the Massive as soon as possible.

He headed out of his quarters, but before going to the hangar, he stopped by Red's quarters. He wouldn't make the same mistake he'd made last time.

Red irritably answered the door on the third knock. "What do you want and can't it wait a few—Oh, Pur." His irritation vanished, and he grinned. "Hey, nice timing. We were just getting started. Care to dance?"

"'We'?" Purple tried to glance past Red to see who else was in his quarters, but caught himself. "Er... I mean, no. Sorry. I've gotta—"

"Aw, c'mon!" Red lowered his voice, smirking. "She'd be _so_ honored to dance with both Tallest at once, don't you think?"

"'She'?" So Red had a female in there. Purple liked dancing with females. Curly antennae were _fun._ "Well..."

He imagined the looks on Red and the other Irken's faces if they saw him naked, saw the results of his surgery and figured out what it was. "I... can't. Sorry, Red." Purple couldn't look him in the eye.

"Really? Not even for curly antenna?" Red gave Purple a puzzled look. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, just fine! I just wanted to tell you that I'm making a quick run to..." Purple named the first planet that popped into his head, "to Judgmentia. I, uh, need to see the Control Brains about something. So don't freak out or anything, okay?"

"Can't you just contact the Brains from the Massive?"

"No, it's one of those kind of things you have to actually visit them for. You know."

"Uh-huh..." Red was still looking at Purple oddly.

"So if I'm not back for a while, don't send the whole Armada to look for me." Purple turned to leave, waving over one shoulder, still not quite able to meet Red's gaze.

He was stopped by a hand on one shoulder. "Hey, Purple. Really, you've been acting kinda funny lately. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely. I feel great. You wouldn't _believe_ how great I feel!"

Purple winced. That didn't exactly sound convincing. But Red let go of his shoulder anyway. "All right. If you say so..."

"I do." Purple headed down the hall, feeling awful. As soon as he'd turned a corner and Red couldn't see him, he dug a bag of Doritos out of his Pak and tore it open. Forget the aftertaste, he needed the chemicals more than the flavor.

Someday, he thought, screwing up his face at the flavor, he and Red would look back on this whole thing and laugh about it. Assuming Purple ever told him what was going on.

Until then, Purple had a mission to do.

He sighed wistfully at the thought of what he was missing in Red's quarters. For some undoubtedly very good reason that Purple had probably ignored the explanation of, the Control Brains maintained a ratio of five fertilizers to each layer, a fact which greatly disappointed Purple. Ensuring the gender ratios was one of the few reasons the Brains would interfere with the random genetic mixes in the smeet facilities. And now, when Red was lucky enough to have found one willing to dance _and_ had invited Purple, he couldn't join. Instead, he had to go to Earth. Woohoo.

Maybe he could pretend Zim had curly antennae.

xxxxx


	18. Imperfect Narcissist

A/N: A few days ago, I remembered something extremely important to put in this author's note.

Now I don't remember what it is.

Oh well. Enjoy the chapter, and please review. This is my favorite chapter so far. I love this chapter.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Imperfect Narcissist

xxx

Information the Meekrob Anti-Irken Tactical Alliance has collected on Irken religion, transcribed from the telepathic thought-patterns they use to relay the information to each other: _Unlike us, the Irkens are not in tune with the Universe's Energy. As such, they too have followed in the paths of many other similarly unenlightened races and thus created various religions. Although modern Irkens are far from spiritual and the truly religiously fervent are few, it is still essential to understand their myths and legends if we are to understand their culture as a whole. Here are their five largest religions, from the one with the highest percentage of Irkens following it to the one with the lowest._

_**Agnosticism:**__ The most common Irken "religion." However, while Agnosticism usually implies a sense of intellectual vitality and theological questioning, this is not the case with Irkens. Rather than exploring the possible existence of a higher power, Irken Agnosticism amounts to ignorance and apathy: they don't know and they don't care._

_**Atheism:**__ They firmly believe that there is no higher power in the universe. Taking this a step further, Irken Atheists may also believe that if there is not a divine higher authority, then there is no reason for them to follow any moral rules, and thus their cruelty is justified._

_**Narcissism:**__ Halfway between religion and philosophy, Narcissism is the "worship" of one's self, an encouragement of vanity and hedonism. This is very popular among the self-professed "evil" Irkens, although they themselves don't agree on whether it's religion or philosophy. Naturally, Narcissists refuse to compromise on such finer points of their belief, since the very nature of their religion/philosophy means they're disinclined to listen to the suggestions of anyone other than themselves._

_**Firmamentalism:**__ A relatively new religion, the worship of outer space, the closest equivalent Irkens have to our worship of the Universe. Firmamentalists believe that the things most deserving of worship are the vastness of space, and the planets and stars within it. They believe that other worlds can be "heavens" or "hells," although they state that what makes a heaven and what makes a hell is, of course, relative to one's personal tastes. Although they consider the planets as a whole to be "holy," that doesn't mean they have any qualms about conquering them. Rather, it merely encourages the Irken greed for conquest. Although relatively few Irkens actually follow Firmamentalism, a great many will borrow phrases and concepts from it, such as "heavens and hells of the Firmament" or "the voids."_

_**Slarkism:**__ The Irkens' oldest religion, now regarded by all but a few as mythology. There are two sub-branches of Slarkism: __**Virtuous Slarkism**__, which is the direct worship of Slark, generally regarded as self-destructive, for the "god of water and death" Slark is said to encourage Irkens to "tie themselves to water," i.e. commit suicide; and __**Zimish Slarkism**__, the worship of the Youngest Tallest Zim, an actual historical figure who is attributed with discovering sugar and who, in mythology, is believed to have been the one-time mortal nemesis to Slark's authority. Despite the enmity of their figures of worship, Virtuous Slarkists and Zimish Slarkists in modern times are not rivals, but rather consider themselves allies against the non-Slarkist Irken majority._

xxx

Red didn't dance because he enjoyed it: he danced because he had to.

Unlike Purple, he couldn't go four weeks without dancing. Long before then he'd start to get hungry, to starve for something more than food: he began to feel a dark emptiness inside himself, like a whirlpool, sucking him down from the inside out.

So he danced.

He didn't feel guilty about the fact that he was only dancing with this Irken for his own pleasure; that was why all Irkens danced, for themselves and not for their dance partners. In any case, that was why Red was paying her. Hired Dancers were in it for themselves as much as any other Irkens.

He _did_ feel slightly guilty that he didn't have any real interest in her in the slightest, physical or otherwise. He had a hard time having interest in any Irkens, really, even when he needed a dance.

(Now, Vortians—_that_ was a completely different matter. Not that Red ever planned on letting anyone, ANYONE find out that he regarded Vortians as anything other than just a bunch of Alien Drones who could build neat weapons. Pansexual, Irkens claimed to be, but in reality that didn't extend beyond their own species. Interest in anything other than Irkens was just wrong. Xenophilia was just wrong. But that didn't make Red like Vortians any less.)

To him, dancing with most Irkens was simply business, a matter of mental health. As such, he was often detached during the process. Once he'd established a rhythm with the Hired Dancer, he allowed himself to be distracted, to think about other things, to worry.

Particularly, he worried about Purple. It wasn't like him to turn down an opportunity to dance with a female—Red knew how much he liked curly antennae. In fact, Red couldn't remember the last time Purple had danced with him. Usually, any time one of them wanted to dance, the other would be willing. They'd been friends a long time, after all, and it was convenient this way because it meant their dance partner wouldn't be stuttering out "It's an honor, my Tallest!" a dozen times a degree.

It also wasn't like Purple to suddenly leave the Massive with almost no explanation. This time, he'd just vaguely said that he needed to talk to the Control Brains; last time, he'd said he wanted some fries, and then had vanished for over a week.

And before then, it had been those weird statistics he'd kept ranting about, the ones that supposedly said Irkens were getting both too tall and too short at the said time, which made no sense to Red. Purple had said there was something wrong with the Control Brains or the birthing facilities, and that it had been wrong for twenty eras at least; Red had said that it was impossible for something to be wrong with the systems that made up the very empire for that long without someone noticing before now. That had been the end of that discussion. But still...

Purple had been acting oddly for a very long time.

Then Red's thoughts were dragged back to the present, to his dance partner, because this was the part he was doing this for: the climax. The pinnacle of sensations from which he could gaze upon the whirlpool that had been sucking him down, and rest assured that he'd done his part to escape it.

When he'd come back down from his high, when his eyes had refocused on the Hired Dancer below him, she appeared to be almost as disoriented as he felt, but she had a look of purpose in her eyes that Red didn't. "That's 630 monies, my Tallest."

Red blinked. "Didn't I..." already pay before the dance? But it didn't matter. 630, 1260... He had monies to spare. "Yeah, here you go." He took a wire with a plug on the end out of his Pak; she took out a smooth pink device connected to hers. Emotionlessly, he plugged the wire in the device, wired 630 monies to her Pak from his, and pulled out the plug to let the wire reel in.

The Hired Dancer got off Red's couch, scooped up her clothes, dressed quickly. Long blue overshirt, gloves, boots: that was the only uniform Dancers had to wear. She saluted with a happy smile. "It's an honor to work for you, my Tallest," she said sincerely.

Ugh. "You can go now."

"Yes, sir," she said, and left Red alone in his quarters.

xxx

Purple didn't dance because he enjoyed it; he danced because he had to.

Unlike Red, he could go four weeks without dancing just fine. When he had to, he could make do with snacks, which was what he was doing now so no one would know about his mission: he actually nearly preferred the snacks to having to fly to Earth to dance with Zim, although he wasn't quite sure why. However, for this mission to work, he _had_ to do this.

So he danced.

He didn't feel guilty about the fact that he was only dancing with Zim to make him pregnant; that was putting the empire before the Irken, putting the good of everyone before the good of Purple's dance partner. In any case, he could consider this part of Zim's punishment for all his crimes. Symbolically repopulating all the Irkens that Zim had killed. Yeah, that sounded good.

He _did_ feel slightly guilty that after all this was over, Zim would be getting no reward. Purple didn't plan on sharing the glory of saving the empire with Zim, if he ever even revealed this plan to the public. In the end, Zim would still be on Earth, still be exiled, still be alone. Purple certainly wouldn't reward him.

To him, dancing with Zim was simply business, a matter of saving the empire. As such, he'd sometimes unfortunately become detached during the process. Once he'd established a rhythm with Zim, his mind was automatically distracted, thinking about other things, worrying.

Particularly, he worried about himself. It wasn't like him to think twice about an opportunity to dance, especially after four weeks of nothing, even if it _was_ with Zim. He was just doing his duty. But it wasn't his own aversion that was making him hesitate now. It was knowing that Zim didn't want to do this, didn't want to grow the eggs. It was knowing that the stupid little (though not as little as before) Exile was suffering, and for some reason, that actually _bothered_ Purple.

It also wasn't like him to suddenly leave the Massive so he could fly across the galaxy and save a single Irken's life, as he'd done a few weeks ago. Even if Zim was necessary for this mission, when he'd been hurt, Purple had reacted _too_ fast; he'd decided he needed to go save Zim before he'd even come up with a good reason why. Zim didn't _deserve_ saving.

Or did he? This was the thought that worried Purple: that he might no longer be capable of despising the most despicable Irken alive. Zim had always been a nuisance and a monster before, yet Purple had let himself grow accustomed to him. Zim had become just another Irken, and even worse, one that wasn't short enough for anyone to automatically hate anymore. Purple was starting to puzzle his way through the Exile's psyche, a skill that he'd honed over many years, and behind the scrambling effects of a defective Pak, Purple thought he was starting to see what could have been a worthy Soldier. But still...

Purple had been feeling oddly since his last trip to Earth.

Then his thoughts were dragged back to the present, to his dance partner, because this was the part he was doing this for: the climax. The rush of fluids from his body into Zim's, the rush of chemicals into his brain, so that when he got back to the Massive and thought about the looming division of the Irken Empire he could rest assured that he'd done his part to prevent it.

When he'd come back down from his high, when his eyes had refocused on Zim below him, he appeared to be almost as disoriented as Purple felt, but Zim had a look of purpose in his eyes that Purple didn't. "Now, about my _other_ mission, my Tallest..."

Purple blinked. "Didn't you..." already ask before the dance? But it didn't matter. Either way, Zim wasn't getting to be an Invader again. "Not a chance in the Firmament." Zim frowned, and luckily the recent dance was keeping his mood high enough that he couldn't look dejected. Angrily, he squirmed out from under Purple, making no attempt to keep their bodies from brushing each other, causing Purple to shiver from the skin contact.

Zim got off Purple's seat, scooped up his clothes, dressed quickly. Long red overshirt, pink undershirt, black pants, gloves, boots: that was the only uniform Zim wore, even though he wasn't an Invader. He saluted with sullen solemnity. "It's an honor to serve the empire, my Tallest," he said sarcastically.

Sigh. "You can go now."

"Fine," he growled, and left Purple alone in his ship.

xxx

Zim was lucky he'd laid his eggs after 180 degrees on a Thursday night; that way, he hadn't contacted Tallest Purple until after school Friday, which meant that after Purple had come to Earth, danced, and left (it had been his shortest visit yet), Zim got to stay home on Saturday and not have to deal with the humans.

Although Zim really _shouldn't_ have stayed home. That had been the seventeenth day of the January-month, which left Zim with very little time if he were to find an Earth job before February. He _should_ have searched for a job, looking for another restaurant with a "help wanted" sign that hadn't already rejected him. There were only a few left in the immediate area that hadn't rejected him, all of which looked creepy. Three or four advertised dance clubs or public dances on weekends, which Zim wanted to be nowhere near. The last one was Bloaty's Pizza Hog. That place was terrifying.

But instead of looking for a job, Zim had watched the teevy. There had been a new special on Napoleon.

He'd avoided trying to get a job the entire next week, too. And now it was Saturday again, Saturday the twenty-fourth, and including that Saturday Zim had a mere week left to find a job.

Four dance clubs—essentially buildings for human orgies, and while Zim had nothing against orgies he had quite a bit against humans and xenophilia in general—and Bloaty's. He'd have to go to one of them, sooner or later.

Tallest Purple didn't care if Zim got a job or not. He didn't think it mattered. Of course, he also thought Zim would never be useful as anything but a vessel for more smeets. As important as that was for the safety of the empire, Zim knew full well that he was worth much more. He also knew that an Earth job would be essential for his eventual conquest of the humans. He just had to get Tallest Purple to see that, to agree with him.

Well, fine then. Zim could do that, couldn't he? He could convince his Tallest that he was still useful.

Purple had said Zim couldn't contact him to ask for help on anything except their mission. He'd never exactly said that Zim couldn't contact him _without_ asking for help.

Zim had a plan now, and it would both get him a job and help raise his standing in Purple's eyes. He didn't need help, oh no. Zim never needed help. Rather, he would help Tallest Purple to see that Zim could handle the challenges that being an Invader would entail.

So he contacted the Massive.

xxx

Purple was contacted just as he was about to leave his quarters. He turned away from the door to look at his computer screen: "Incoming transmission from Planet Earth."

He sighed. "Zim." He wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or worried. It had been only seven days since Purple had been out there to dance. The eggs couldn't be ready yet...

When Purple answered the transmission, Zim saluted enthusiastically. "Greetings, my Tallest. I apologize for—"

"Is something wrong with the eggs?" Purple asked.

"Huh? No, nothing is threatening them," Zim said. "Anyway, I apologize for bothering you so soon after you were here, but this is a rather urgent matter."

"Oh, really?" Purple doubted it. "So what is this urgent matter?"

"I can't tell you," Zim said. "But you'll have to come to Earth. Er, please, my Tallest."

"What?! Why? What are you hiding?" Purple demanded, glaring at Zim.

Zim fidgeted nervously. "It won't be a long visit, my Tallest..."

"I don't believe you! Go to Earth?! And what would I tell Red, huh?" Actually, Purple knew exactly what he'd tell Red: that he was going to the Conveyor Belt Planet. Which was true. Purple had come up with a plan to make sure the eggs would be safe, even if Zim wasn't in the base to guard them. He hadn't expected to run by the Conveyor Belt Planet until the next time he visited Earth to dance. But if this was really so urgent, perhaps he could go to Earth now and swing by the Conveyor Belt Planet on his way back... "Okay, _fine._ But if this isn't good then I really _am_ blocking your transmissions."

"Thank you, my Tallest!" Zim said, grinning enthusiastically. Purple didn't trust that grin. It meant Zim was up to something.

"Yeah, whatever." Purple cut the transmission.

In the past seventy-something days, this would be the fourth trip Purple had made away from the Massive, the fourth trip that he couldn't explain to Red beyond vaguely naming the planet he was visiting before he left and vaguely mentioning the things he had done after he returned. Red knew something was going on, Purple was sure of that. At least he didn't know _what_ was going on.

Explaining this trip to Red wouldn't be fun.

xxx

Zim was waiting in the hangar when Purple landed his Spittle Runner. As Purple lowered the Runner, being careful not to land on Zim (little idiot had decided to stand right in the middle of the hangar) he realized this was the first time he'd ever seen Zim in person while he was pregnant. It had only been a week, but the difference was obvious. For a moment, the same overwhelming sense of... of connection filled him, the same one he'd had when he'd held Fataz's egg, wondering if Zim would die or not—the sense that the things in Zim's stomach weren't just Zim's, but Purple's as well, half-Zim half-Purple clones—and then the emotion passed. He hoped it wouldn't come back. Getting a freaky connection to an egg is one thing, getting one to something still _inside_ Zim is another.

Zim saluted the moment the glass view screen of the Runner flipped up. "I thank you for coming, my Tallest. There's no time to lose! Here!" He held up Purple's trench coat and cowboy hat. "You'll need your disguise. We're going out!"

"Out where?" Purple asked, snatching up the Earth clothes but not putting them on. He'd already taken his armor off, so he _could_ put the disguise on, but he didn't want to look like he was going along with whatever it was Zim wanted.

"To a _horrible_ place," Zim said. "Bloaty's Pizza Hog."

"What?" Purple thought he remembered hearing the name on a previous visit to Earth, seeing an advertisement for it. "What is that?"

"An Earth fast food restaurant. They serve _meat."_

Purple stuck his tongue out in disgust, before he realized what Zim was getting at. "Wait, is this that stupid Earth job thing you want to get?"

Zim looked at his feet. "Maybe..."

"I don't believe it!" Purple said furiously. "You dragged me all the way out here after I TOLD you I wasn't helping you with anything that doesn't have to do with our _real_ mission?"

"But it does have to do with the real mission! I just need to think up how they're connected!" Zim said quickly. He paused. "Uh. You imagined that last sentence, my Tallest. Really."

Purple shook his head, fuming. "I'm leaving."

"Wait—my Tallest, _please!"_ Zim grabbed Purple's hand.

For a moment, Purple froze, too stunned at Zim's audacity to even shake him off. _No one_ was stupid enough to actually grab a Tallest. No one, except Zim.

Zim apparently took Purple's silence as a willingness to listen. "I promise, this won't take long, my Tallest. You don't even have to do anything! I merely request that you accompany Zim to the Hog place. I don't need any help!"

Reluctantly, Purple said, "That's all?"

"That's all! I swear by my namesake!"

"Your namesake?" Purple gave Zim a puzzled look. "The Youngest Tallest? Since when were you a Slarkist?"

"Ew, never!" Zim stuck out his tongue. "I'm a Narcissist."

That made sense. It _would_ be like a Narcissist to swear by his own name. No wonder Zim liked the philosophy.

Purple jerked his hand out of Zim's. "As long as this doesn't take much time."

"Thank you!" Zim practically skipped to the lift. "Come on! The Hog cannot wait forever!"

xxx

Purple knew he was treating Zim differently.

A few weeks ago, he would never have agreed to go with Zim to fulfill some stupid Zim idea, especially after he'd dragged Purple out of the Massive without any mention of what they were going to do. A few weeks ago, Purple would have hauled Zim back to Irk, handed him over to a trained Torture Soldier for a couple of days, and then shipped him in a really cramped box back to Earth, where his transmissions would _definitely_ be blocked.

So, why was he following Zim?

"This is the place, my Tallest," Zim said, pointing at a building. A giant hog face loomed over the door, above it a cheese-coated sign with red words that Purple assumed read "Bloaty's Pizza Hog." The building glowed in menacing pink and orange, giving it an eerie halo in the black night. It looked like it would be a furnace inside. Irkens hated heat. They had evolved on a planet that got cold enough to freeze their antennae to deafness most winters; they were built to cope with cold, _not_ heat.

"Okay. So what do I do?" Purple asked, surveying the building with as much haughty Irken superiority as he could muster.

"Just... stay close."

Something in Zim's voice sounded unnatural, like a forced calm. Purple gave Zim a suspicious look. "Why?"

Zim didn't meet Purple's gaze. "It's creepy in there, my Tallest."

"What do you mean?" They reached the building and Purple looked through the glass door, into the inferno-like yellow-red glow. His eyes widened. "Oh. _Slark."_

Modern Irkens didn't believe in a supernatural hell and didn't believe in demons, although it was a generally accepted theory that out there in the vast Firmament were worlds that embodied physical hells and heavens, and perhaps there were aliens on some that could be classified as demons. In Purple's mind, a hell had always been a never-ending boiling ocean. But, gazing into Bloaty's Pizza Hog, he now thought he knew what the demons in that ocean would look like.

The restaurant was crawling with grotesque beasts. Made of steel and skin and fur and fangs and mismatched wide eyes with pin-point pupils, patches of flesh missing to expose mechanical innards, they made Purple think of the vile predators that had skulked through the plains of Irk thousands of eras ago, hunting tribes of weak, laser-less and Pak-free Irkens. Purple couldn't even tell if they were organic or artificial.

"They were a lot bigger the last time I saw them," Zim said weakly, attempting to sound casual. He took a deep breath. "So. Let's—"

"I'm not going in there."

Zim looked at Purple in surprise. "Huh?"

"I'm staying right here." Purple planted his hands on his hips, eyes glued to the horrible beast things. "You can't make me get anywhere near those monsters. Tallest's decision. Staying here."

Slowly, Zim's surprise turned into a look of comprehension that Purple rarely saw on him. "My Tallest?"

"What?" Purple snapped.

"Are you... afraid of the Bloaty-fiends?" Purple had the feeling that there should have been a "too" tacked on at the end of that sentence, if it hadn't been Zim saying it.

"Hah! Drones are more frightening," Purple said nervously. (Never mind that Purple was occasionally scared stiff of Drones. They were desperate, hungry, envious little things, and someday they were going to assassinate Purple, he was sure of that. At times, in the eyes of taller Irkens, short Irkens could be utterly incomprehensible, simply terrifying, like dangerous, stupid beasts. Purple occasionally had to remind himself that there was no difference between tall and short Irkens other than height. Then again, wasn't height _everything?)_ "Why? Are _you_ scared of those things, Zim?"

"Zim, scared? Never!" And to prove it, he pulled open the door and marched boldly into the restaurant.

The moment the glass door shut, he stopped, back stiff with fear. If Zim hadn't been wearing his disguise, Purple was sure his antennae would be nearly flat against his head, kept low to keep from attracting attention but raised just enough to sense danger. But then he turned towards a counter where a bored-looking, zitty human male was sitting, and his resolve hardened again.

Zim marched forward with his head high, not turning to look around, not letting the fur-metal-fiends distract him, his hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides. He only stopped once, just past the fiends; he turned back to look for Purple. Probably to make sure he hadn't abandoned Zim.

No... Even through the freaky human contacts, Purple could see that Zim was no longer afraid. He wasn't turning back in cowardice, but in victory. Behind the contacts, his eyes glowed with the same reckless euphoria Purple had seen in the eyes of his Royal Guards, defending him and Red from assassination attempts: the glow that came from knowing that they were in the thick of mortal danger, that they would triumph regardless, and that their Tallest had witnessed their heroics.

Zim hadn't needed Purple here at all. He could have gone inside to get his job all by himself; or, more likely, could have decided not to go and claimed later that he had. The only reason he'd gone to all this effort was to show off his bravery to his Tallest.

"Idiot," Purple muttered crossly. "Stupid, idiotic... idiot. What kind of moron would fall for a stunt like that? Huh?" He wasn't sure if he was talking to Zim or to himself. He decided to make it Zim. "You're wasting your time. I'm not ending your exile because of this. Walking past a bunch of fiends isn't going to make me think you're a better Invader. That doesn't impress me at all."

Purple had only half told the truth. No, this wouldn't make Purple think Zim was a better Invader. But Zim hadn't failed to leave an impression.

Purple used to think that Zim couldn't see anything but himself and his own imaginary triumphs. _That_ had changed when Zim had accepted this mission; he himself had said that his duty to the empire came before his own interests, and even after Purple had found out how much Zim didn't want to continue the mission, Zim had said he would go on. The empire before the Irken.

Still, Purple had thought that was just another way for Zim to show off his own greatness, by single-handedly rescuing the great Irken Empire from falling apart. He was still completely self-centered, self-absorbed, focused on himself to the point of absolutely ignoring any outside opinions...

Maybe not completely. This simple act, this moronically dragging Purple to all the way to Earth to watch him get a dumb job, made Purple wonder. If Zim only cared about what he thought about himself, why would he have wanted Purple to be here, simply to show off?

Because he needed someone else to recognize his greatness. He was an imperfect Narcissist: he could stand on a mountain and shout "ZIM IS AMAZING!" as long as he liked but, unless there was at least a small echo in agreement, "_Zim _is_ amazing,"_ he couldn't fully believe it himself. Until Purple had told him that his mission was a lie, that he was an Exile, he'd probably been able to imagine that echo was there. Now he knew the truth: there had never been anyone agreeing with his proclamations. For the first time, he was working to earn his Tallest's praise.

Hadn't he always fought for others' approval? Yes, now that Purple thought about it, yes, he had. Every time he had violated an order, even when he'd gone on that rampage during Operation Impending Doom I, it had been to try to show off how great he was. He didn't need to prove his greatness to himself, if he really was as thoroughly self-absorbed as he acted; he needed to prove it to everyone else. He needed to be told he was amazing.

He had turned back to search for that echo of approval, for something in Purple's face to match his own sense of triumph. He apparently found it or successfully imagined it, because he turned back around and marched up to the zit-scarred human at the counter.

No, Purple didn't think Zim was a better Invader. However, Zim's little stunt was having a very unexpected side effect: for the first time ever, Purple couldn't see a shred of the monstrosity, the defectiveness that had dominated his every impression of Zim for nearly sixteen years. For a moment, he could only see an Irken just like any other Irken, desperate for his empire's approval. He could only see the Zim he'd met the day after he was born, eyes shining brightly with the assurance that someday, he would make the empire a great place.

Zim was still a defect and an idiot, but from that moment on, Purple could never see Zim as a monster again; he could never hate Zim again.

xxxxx


	19. Bella and Dorito

A/N: I mention in this chapter that the characters live in Michigan, which sounds like a completely random state and I must admit it is. But I'm basing it on canon; in Backseat Drivers, Red tracks down the origin of the signal that hacked the Massive, which was of course coming from Zim's base. Here's a screen cap of the origin of the signal:

badbadrubberpiggy. com/images/caps/iz38/large/iz38-01815.jpg (just take out the space in the ". com")

Of course, you can't actually tell _where_ the precise signal is coming from, but it looks like a Michiganish area to me. Please attribute any discrepancies between this fic and what Michigan is really like to the fact that this is Zimworld, where the nation is ruled by President Man and apparently you can take a taxi from the northern border of the United States all the way to Mexico.

Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please, please remember to review/comment/critique/whatever! Thank you!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Bella and Dorito

xxx

"'Go to Bloaty's and gimme a large pepperoni,'" Dib mimicked, glaring at the coupon in his hand: _One large single-topping pizza! 1/2 off! Offer good until Sunday January 25._ "'Hurry up, the coupon expires in two hours.' 'Why, sure, Gaz, I'd love to go out in the middle of the night to get you a pizza because you forgot to use your coupon earlier!' Yeah, right." He jammed his hands and the coupon in his pockets. "Who makes a coupon expire on the twenty-fifth of a month, anyway?"

As he trudged to Bloaty's, he noticed that someone in a baggy trench coat was lurking outside the restaurant. Hobo, probably. Dib clenched his hands around his coupon and a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, wondering if this guy would try to jump him.

To his surprise, as he drew closer he recognized the "hobo." "Agent Purple? Is that you?"

He gave Dib a weird look. "Er, if you say so... Hey." He looked closer at Dib. "Aren't you that Mothman?"

"Yeah, that's me!" Dib said. "Did you ever find a way to deal with those vampires?" Dib hadn't seen Purple since before Christmas. He apparently hadn't sprouted fangs, so he'd at least managed to avoid being inducted into the vampires' ranks.

"Oh, yeah!" Purple nodded. "I think we taught them a lesson," he said smugly. Dib wondered who the "we" was. Maybe Purple had voices in his head; the hazards that came with being a Swollen Eyeball agent were many and varied.

"That's... good," Dib said carefully. "So, what brings you to Bloaty's? Any paranormal activities?"

"Uh..." Purple gave Dib another weird look, and pointed into the restaurant. "Just him."

Dib looked inside the restaurant. "Zim's here?! Did you follow him?"

"I... guess. I mean, I didn't find Bloaty's on my own, did I?"

This time Dib gave Purple the weird look. "Okay..." Well, at least he was keeping an eye on Zim. Dib hadn't realized that any other Eyeball agents had taken him seriously about "the Spider," much less that they were having Zim tracked. Dib leaned against the glass doors to look inside; Zim seemed to just be talking to the cashier. Angrily, but still not particularly threateningly. "What's he up to this time? Going to use pizza to take over the world, or something?"

Purple laughed wryly. "He wishes. I _think_ he's trying to get an Earth job." After a moment he added, thoughtfully, "But I wouldn't put a pizza-fueled doom machine past him."

"Yeah, really." Then again, Dib remembered that Zim had been trying to get a job for a few weeks now. Maybe since he didn't have his mission to take over Earth anymore, he wasn't getting paid by his leaders and had to make some extra money? Could he convert Earth money into Irken money? Perhaps he really _was_ just looking for a job. "Okay, thanks. Good work, Agent Purple; I'll take it from here. Keep your eyeball swollen!"

"Er, sure thing," Purple said. As Dib entered the restaurant and the door swung closed, he could have sworn he heard Purple mutter, "Crazy meatbag," but it was probably his imagination.

As soon as he was inside, he stopped, hanging back near the exit to listen to Zim argue with the cashier. "Two puny days a year?! I demand more time than that!"

"Look, that's just what new hires get, okay?" the cashier said. "I started off with two days of vacation and five bucks an hour like everyone else."

"Zim does not care for your _bucks_," Zim said angrily. "But I need more time off." He emphasized the statement by waving a clenched fist at the cashier. "So much more!"

The cashier looked taken aback. "You don't care about the pay?" he said dumbly. (Dib was hardly surprised to discover that Zim wasn't after money after all, although now he wondered why Zim _did_ want a job. He considered trying to tell the cashier that Zim was more likely to use the pizza ovens to incubate his alien eggs than he was to actually do his job, but decided against it. The cashier could learn the hard way.) "Well... okay, I guess we could start you at fifty cents an hour and nine vacation days a year."

"Ehn..." Zim narrowed his eyes in thought. "Could you put it at no money and ten days?"

"We've gotta pay you something. Labor laws."

Zim growled. "Curse you, labor laws! Okay, fine! I can get more of these 'vacations' with promotions, can't I?"

"Sure." The cashier shrugged.

"Then I accept your offer, Bloaty Drone!"

Dib snickered at the idea of Zim working at Bloaty's for fifty cents an hour. Zim, a minimum-wage slave to the American corporate system. Dib would have to offer to take Gaz to Bloaty's more often just so he could gloat.

"Oh, man." The cashier grinned, reaching under the counter for something. "The boss is gonna _love_ you." He pulled out a card. "This is your ID badge. You can write your name on it or something. You wear it whenever you're on your shift. If you lose it, the next one will be fused to your skin, so don't lose it. I knew a guy who lost six before he learned his lesson."

Dib wondered how someone could lose an ID badge fused to their skin.

Zim accepted the badge and saluted. "When do I report for duty?"

"Well, we're hiring you for the night shift, so you can start tomorrow at ten PM."

"Excellent!" Zim marched to the door, apparently not noticing Dib, sticking his tongue out at one of the mechanical mascots that had scared him so much two years ago. Before leaving, he stopped and declared, "Prepare yourself, Food Service Drone. Beginning tomorrow night your pizzas will be prepared as they've never been prepared before!" He left the restaurant with an evil cackle.

Dib didn't doubt for a moment that Zim would prepare pizzas as they'd never been prepared before. But that probably meant the pizzas would end up radioactive. "He won't last a week," he commented.

The cashier shrugged. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Did he tell you about his allergies? Meat? _Water?"_

The cashier shrugged again. "That's not so bad. I'm allergic to grease."

"Really? And you're working at Bloaty's?" Dib raised an eyebrow. "What's it do to you?"

"It gives me acne," the cashier said.

Dib skeptically eyed the cashier's pimply face. "I think it does that to everyone..."

"And it makes me impotent."

That was way too much information. Dib cleared his throat. "Er. So, can I use a coupon?" He checked the wall clock; it was just past eleven PM. It hadn't expired yet.

"Sure thing. What do you want? Soda, breadsticks, a salad with poop sauce?"

"Actually..." Dib pulled out the coupon. "Can I get a large pepperoni pizza?"

The cashier stared at Dib. "Uh... we don't have any pizza."

_"What?_ You're joking! Bloaty's Pizza Hog doesn't have _pizza?!"_

"We fired our night cook because he was stealing mustard packets to feed illegal immigrants," the cashier said.

Dib blinked. "Illegal immigrants? In _Michigan?"_

The cashier nodded. "Those Canadians are desperate," he said. "Anyway, that's why we put out a 'help wanted' sign. We won't have any pizza until five AM, when our morning cook comes in. If you want pizza at night, you should come back tomorrow, when our new guy comes in."

Yeah, right. Like Dib was going to let Zim make his pizza. "But... but the coupon won't be good then," Dib said helplessly.

"Sorry. You should have used it earlier."

Dib stared at his coupon and considered all the things Gaz might do to him if he came home without a pizza. He wondered what life would be like as a quadriplegic.

He sighed, and sat down at a booth for the long wait until five AM. Paying full price out of his own money for a pizza was worth it to avoid the looming massacre.

xxx

"So," Purple said, when Zim came outside. "Did you get the job?"

Zim was surprised Purple had even asked. "Of course," he said, proudly holding up his new ID badge.

Purple nodded. "Good work." Without another word, he turned to leave.

Elated at the slight praise, Zim followed, grinning. So the Almighty Tallest _had_ recognized his hard work! Zim hadn't made a mistake in asking him to come to Earth. "Well, naturally they would want to hire _me,_" Zim boasted. "I am clearly superior to any stupid human they could hire."

"Uh-huh?" Purple said, not like he was deeply enthralled, but then again not like he was tuning Zim out, either. It was a promising sign.

"And in any case, I am MORE than qualified for their stupid job! The Control Brains themselves said that Zim would excel in any Food Service career!"

"They did?" Purple glanced at Zim curiously. "Then why were you in Soldier training with me and Red?"

Zim shrugged, looking down. "I thought I could get more recognition in the Military than in Food Services, my Tallest."

"Really? What about Frylords? They get more recognition."

And once, the Control Brains had said that Zim could be a Frylord. _Assuming you attain a respectable height._ "I wasn't... tall enough to be a Frylord," he said, slightly embarrassed but trying not to show it. "Shorter Irkens have bad opportunities in Food Service careers." Zim had seen Frycooks and Cashiers, Shift Managers and Food Service Drones, that were twenty, ten, zero units tall. He'd seen them all get kicked around by taller Irkens, by Archivists and Artisans who were a hundred fifty, hundred sixty units tall. If you were eighty units or under, Food Service was brutal.

No Archivist or Artisan ever threatened a Soldier, no matter how short he was. It didn't matter if you came up to someone's eye or elbow as long as you were trained in combat and authorized to use a Battle Mech. As a Soldier, then an Elite, then an Invader, Zim had exercised free reign to harass Irkens three times taller than him. That had been neat. That had been the kind of authority Zim deserved.

Purple was clearly interested now. For once, he had his full attention on Zim, without any of the typical suspicion. "I never heard that. I thought all the careers were supposed to be equal."

"Feh! Everyone knows it," Zim said. "Did you ever notice there are no Invaders over eighty units tall?"

Purple looked up towards the Firmament thoughtfully. "There aren't, are there..." he said slowly. Zim figured he was trying to remember the heights of the Invaders he knew.

"No Soldier tall enough to be a War Tactician or High Commander is going to risk his life invading a planet." Zim himself would gladly trade in invading for commanding; he certainly wasn't _afraid_ of the danger that came with being an Invader, not Zim, but he could do so much more for his empire with troops of Soldiers and Pilots under his command. Not merely preparing worlds for subjugation, but actually subjugating them.

Zim would never have a chance to command anything.

"Wait—you mean the Invaders, the Irkens who are supposed to be the empire's future, are just the guys taking the job nobody else wants?"

"Duh." Zim looked accusingly at Purple. "Do _you_ want to be an Invader?"

"Er, maybe I _would_. I mean, wouldn't everyone?" Purple said. "But why would I want to be an Invader if I can be Tallest?... Oh." He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Oh, yeah... I guess that makes sense..."

"You see?" Zim said. "Tall Irkens are never Invaders."

"That's kinda freaky. We've been conquering the universe with _short_ Irkens?"

"Hey, I think it's good. It means I can be an Invader!"

"I know. That's the freaky part." But Purple slightly smiled as he said it.

Zim scowled. "I could be a good Invader!" he insisted. "If you'd just _let_ me."

"I'm not going to let you, Zim," Purple said wearily, and that was the end of that.

After a moment, he conceded, "But maybe you _could_ have been good."

xxx

The two smeets crouched under the lights near the SPL chamber's lift seemed quite content to completely ignore Purple and Zim. One, a layer, was determined to disassemble a stray laser, and the other, the one with purple eyes, seemed to be watching her. They both glanced up as their parents (although they didn't know they were their parents) approached. The layer quickly lost interest and turned back to her laser; the purple-eyed one studied Purple attentively for a moment, before eventually looking at the laser as well.

Purple wasn't quite so disinterested. Staring at the smeets in disbelief, he said, "You already attached their Paks?"

"Yes, my Tallest," Zim said proudly. "All by myself, too!"

That was quite obvious. The layer's Pak was attached slightly crooked, tilted towards her left shoulder. The purple-eyed smeet's Pak was placed a bit better, but he still had three ugly scars stretching along his back from beneath his Pak that didn't look like they would heal. "Why on Irk didn't you let your computer do that?"

"I don't need the computer's help!" Zim said. "See? And I even programmed their names and got the Control Brains to give them personalities and jobs. It was easy!"

"Master's first idea was to download his personality into the smeets' Paks instead of letting the Control Brains give them personalities," the computer added.

Now that would have been a disaster. The only reason Purple had been willing to dance with Zim to begin with was because he'd been sure the smeets couldn't inherit Zim's defectiveness. "And... what did you name them?" Like Purple really wanted to hear.

"The layer is Bella," Zim said.

"Whuh?" Bella glanced up at the sound of her name, concluded she wasn't being given an order, and lost interest again. However, the other smeet (Bella's _brother_, technically; the word seemed strange to Purple) stopped paying attention to Bella's disassembly of the laser all together, and quietly watched Zim and Purple.

"Bella?! Who came up with a word like Bella? Huh?"

"Humans. Like Fataz."

"Yeah, but, Fataz sounds kinda normal. I mean... _Bella?"_

"I couldn't think of anything," Zim said. "It was Bella or Trysta."

Purple stuck out his tongue. No way one of his smeets was being named after a vampire. "Fine. Bella. What's the purple-eyed one?"

The smeet answered for himself, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity. He stood, saluted, and said, "My name is Dorito, my Tallest."

Purple blinked. "You're kidding." It wasn't unusual for Irkens to be named for snacks—he'd once known a Pilot named Nacho—but come on, _Dorito?_

"Um..." Dorito's antennae drooped a bit in confusion. (Purple realized he'd seen Zim do the same thing many times.) "Not... really?"

Noticing that she was now disassembling her laser by herself, Bella looked up at Purple. "Hey, who are you?" (And her suspicious squint looked all too much like Zim's. Slark, had they gotten _all_ their genes from Zim?)

Dorito gave Bella a patronizing look. "He's the _Almighty Tallest,_ Bella. Come on! Did you actually not know that?"

"Shut up, of course I knew that!" Bella said angrily. "I was just... just testing you, that's all."

"If you were testing me, why did you ask the Tallest who he was instead of _me?_ Huh? That's what I thought!"

They were two little Zim-clones, Purple concluded with growing horror. He glanced over at Zim to see how he was taking this. "Hey, what's so funny?"

Zim was biting his lip to hold back laughter. He shook his head. "It's nothing, my Tallest. Just..." He gestured at the smeets. "They act exactly like you."

Purple stared at Zim. "What are you talking about? They act like _you."_

Now Zim really did laugh out loud. "Like me?! Don't be ridiculous! It's so _obvious!"_

Purple didn't argue; he'd seen this before, in diplomatic meetings between different cultures. Before the Vortians had been subjugated, in the Planet Jacker-Irken-Vortian treaty meetings, the Planet Jackers had argued about how the Vortians' and Irkens' long alliance and sharing of Firmamentalism made them alike, and the Vortians had argued that the Planet Jackers' and Irkens' utter disregard of alien cultures made _them_ alike. Meanwhile, Red and Purple thought both other races were stupid for not realizing that _they_ were alike, both being races of snooty heat-loving fish-eaters. Purple had eventually realized that no one was right and it didn't matter anyway; Red could just keep arguing about who was more like whom as long as he wanted.

"Whatever, fine. They're like me," Purple said. They had to get on to more important matters. "So you hooked them up to the Control Brains? Did they get their projected heights?"

"Yes, my Tallest! You should see. Computer!"

"Whaaat?"

"Display Bella and Dorito's smeet records!"

"Fine..."

It plugged first into Bella's Pak, lowered a screen from the SLP chamber ceiling, and displayed her record:

_name: BELLA career: MILITARY/Guard_

_primary suggestions: You are an astute observer who will be able to detect danger in situations where you will have to keep track of multiple stimuli at once. However, your ability to concentrate on an individual stimulus for longer times will be lacking, and thus your skills are unsuited for jobs involving planning and tactical decisions. Although easily distractible, you should nevertheless be capable of multitasking with ease; paradoxically, you are able to concentrate best when you are required to concentrate on more things at once. Attempt to be promoted to Bodyguard, as any other Guard job would bore you. Other than Guard, you are suited to be a Soldier, if you can concentrate on orders._

Purple concluded that Bella got her observational skills from him; she got her distractibility and general Soldier-ness from Zim.

_projected height: 112 UNITS_

Purple almost grinned, until he saw the final line:

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

"They don't WHAT?!" Zim said furiously, rising up on his Pak-legs to shout at the computer screen. "Don't expect much from Zim's amazing offspring? Ignorant fool! I demand you reassess my smeet!"

"Hey, don't blame me!" the computer said. "I'm just displaying the info!"

Zim whirled back to face Purple. "Can you believe that? Well? Can you?!"

"Calm down, Zim," Purple said. Although that _was_ strange. There had to be a reason for it... "Let's just see what Dorito's says, okay?"

"Stupid Brains," Zim muttered. He turned to Bella. "Hey. What do you think of that?"

She had been staring perplexedly at the screen with her record but whipped her head around to face Zim, startled. "Huh? Did you say something?"

Purple sighed. Well, the Brains were certainly right about her. "Computer, display Dorito's record."

"Sure."

_name: DORITO career: DIPLOMACY/Diplomat_

_primary suggestions: Both culturally intelligent and highly charismatic, you should have equal skill in bargaining with aliens and coercing them into doing whatever the empire wants. Although Diplomacy is best suited to you, you would meet equal success as a Taller Advisor, to assist the Tallest in making decisions about interplanetary affairs. If you are not tall enough, you could also excel as an Invader._

So, even the Control Brains indirectly admitted that only short Irkens were Invaders.

Obviously, Purple thought, Dorito got his cultural skills from him, since Zim didn't have any; he got his charisma from Zim. He sounded like he actually could be a good Diplomat someday. The empire needed more of those. "Hey, Dorito."

Dorito had been reading the screen, but immediately turned towards Purple, alert. "Yes, my Tallest?"

"Don't even think about transferring out of Diplomat training. The moment you graduate, you're hired as a Taller Advisor. Got it?" Purple had made the mistake to transfer out. Sometimes he wondered whether or not he might've actually been useful as a Tallest if he'd been a Diplomat. Then again, he probably wouldn't be a Tallest now if he'd been a Diplomat; the only reason he was now, was because of the Tenth Law, and Red wouldn't have made it if he and Purple hadn't been friends for so many years.

Dorito saluted enthusiastically. "Yes sir, my Tallest! It would be an honor to serve you!"

"Yeah, I know." He could fire Pon to hire Dorito. Red probably wouldn't complain.

"You'd hire one of my smeets?!" Zim was ecstatic. "One of _my_ offspring will help rule the Irken Empire? _Wow!"_ He scooped up a very startled Dorito and gave him a tight hug. "Hey, Bella! Be more like Dorito!"

She looked up again, confused. "What? Oh, yeah, sure. Okay. What you said." And her attention had returned to the laser, which was now in three pieces on the ground.

_projected height: 100 UNITS_

"Perfectly average!" Purple said triumphantly. The first one. Maybe this mission would work after all...

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

This time, both Purple and Zim fell silent. Zim was wordless with shocked outrage that part of his genetic code had been so slighted; Purple, with bafflement at what the message could mean. "'We do not expect much of you'?" Purple echoed, and then grew annoyed. "What do you mean? I just said I'm gonna _hire_ Dorito, and you're saying he's worthless?"

"Yeah!" Zim said. "What do you think you know about my smeet anyway?"

"Why does everyone keep shouting at me?!" the computer asked helplessly.

"This is stupid!" Zim said. "How can they _not_ expect much of the offspring of a Tallest and the amazing Zim?!" He turned to Purple, frustrated. "Well?"

"Get down," Purple said, pushing Zim's head down; he was up on his Pak-legs again. "I don't know. Ask the Control Brains."

"My Tallest?"

Purple looked at Dorito. "What?"

He seemed concerned. "The Hundred Law states that all Irkens in careers that require a minimum height, like Taller Advisor and High Commander, must be taller than one hundred units, and if they're shorter than one hundred units they can't take the job. What about Irkens that are exactly one hundred units, my Tallest?"

"Uh..." For a moment, Purple was honestly clueless; but then he remembered the bell curves of Irken height. "That's not a problem. There aren't any Irkens a hundred units."

"But the Control Brains said I'll be one hundred," Dorito said insistently. "Can I still take the job?"

"Er, we'll make an exception for you," Purple said. "Don't worry about it. You probably won't be exactly a hundred anyway, but I could change the law so it says ninety-seven units or something. I already said that I was hiring you, didn't I?"

Dorito nodded, relieved. "Thank you, my Tallest."

Zim smirked, calmed down now that he knew this wouldn't prevent his smeet from getting hired. "The Control Brains are stupid anyway," he told Dorito. "They banished me to Foodcourtia once." Purple didn't point out that that was probably the smartest thing the Brains had ever done. It only would have been smarter if they'd sent him somewhere with better security, like the Conveyor Belt Planet...

Purple suddenly realized how long he'd been on Earth. "Aw, Slark. I've got to go." He'd told Red he was making a quick trip to the Conveyor Belt Planet, and he still hadn't gone there yet; he also had to go to Irk to drop off the smeets. "Bella, Dorito—in the lift. Bella, leave the laser." Dorito saluted and got in immediately; Bella only reluctantly left her disassembled weapon.

Zim joined them in the lift, and it started to rise towards the hangar. "You're leaving so soon, my Tallest? But you only just got here!"

"This was supposed to be a short visit, remember?" Purple said. "Besides, I'm gonna be back in three weeks."

"Only to dance and leave again," Zim muttered.

"Well, yeah..." Stupid guilt, Purple hated feeling guilty. "And... maybe we could make fun of another moovy or something. We only saw the first two Stair Wars, didn't we?"

Zim's antennae perked up. "You'll stay longer next time?"

"Sure, why not?" As long as he was going be away from the Massive, no reason he couldn't officially take a longer break.

Bella and Dorito, like all Irken smeets, were born with the knowledge of dancing but not the maturity to handle it, and were smiling guiltily at listening to their Tallest make plans to dance with someone. They'd stop thinking it was so funny once they did it for themselves. "You don't tell anyone about what you've seen on this planet, got it?" Purple said to the smeets. "If anyone asks, you came from a birthing facility like everyone else."

Both Bella and Dorito saluted. "Yes, sir!"

"Good." The lift stopped at the hangar and the door opened. "Get in the Spittle Runner." They saluted again and ran off. Purple sighed, and shouted, "That's the Voot Cruiser, Bella! Other ship!"

"I knew that!"

Zim snickered again. Purple gave him an annoyed look. "She got that from you, you know."

"With all due respect, my Tallest, she SO got that from you."

Whatever. Purple couldn't sit around arguing with Zim about genetics. He still had to get to the Conveyor Belt Planet.

Which reminded him. "Zim, I'm going to send another Irken out to Earth in a few days, all right? He's going to stay here with you, so he can take care of the smeets and make sure nothing bad happens to them before I can get back."

"What? How could anything bad happen to them with me here?" Zim demanded.

Purple glanced towards the smeets in the Spittle Runner, and even from here could faintly see the ugly scars on Dorito's back. How, indeed. "It's just to be safe, all right?" Purple said wearily. "I mean, you're out of the base enough as it is, and now that you've got that Earth job to do—"

"The computer and Gir can handle the care of the smeets!" Zim said. "I don't need any help from any stupid—"

"Think of it as a personal Drone slave, okay?"

"Oh." Zim turned the idea over in his mind. "A personal slave..."

"But, if you don't want it..."

"No, no, that's quite all right," Zim said quickly, and bowed—actually bent over and _bowed._ "I would be honored to receive a Drone to do my bidding, my Tallest!"

"Good. He should be here in... I dunno, a day, maybe?" Purple could probably shove him in a box on Conveyor Belt Planet and ship him to Earth that way.

"I shall be awaiting his delivery!" Zim said, grinning ecstatically. "Thank you, my Tallest!"

"Yeah, just don't kill him," Purple muttered. But despite himself, he had to grin at Zim's enthusiasm.

For a moment, he had a crazy urge to, to say good-bye, somehow. Not just _say_ good-bye, but to _do_ something. Maybe... reach down and stroke Zim's head, maybe brush an antenna. Fingers on skin, nearly-almost dancing, just a pleasant tingling Purple could try to preserve on the flight back to Irk...

But that would be way, _way_ too intimate. Especially for Zim's sake. Purple was just a bit deprived from not having danced much lately, that was the only reason he was getting weird ideas like that. The urge passed, although not as quickly as he would have liked.

"So," he said flatly, turning away from Zim. "I'll be back in three weeks." He got in the Runner, shut it, started it, and in very little time was far above Earth.

As Bella and Dorito stared in wonder at the colors of the wormhole (they still looked like little Zim-clones to Purple, except one a layer and one with purple eyes) he sighed in relief. Soon, he'd be back at the Massive, where things were _normal._

All he had to do before then was drop off the smeets, and then pay a visit to Exile Bob.

xxxxx


	20. Youngest Tallest

A/N: In which an unwieldy amount of text is spent describing the Conveyor Belt Planet and its inhabitants. Oh, well—I enjoyed writing it all and I think it's pretty good, so I hope you do too.

It's occurred to me that the basic "feel" of this fic has kinda changed over time, and I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing. Has anyone else noticed this? And if so, d'you think it's been a good or bad change, or neutral?

Anyway, enjoy chapter 20. Please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Youngest Tallest

xxx

A story from the Tracts of Slark, the holy text of a nearly-dead Irken religion: _**While the Youngest Tallest still lived, the Irkens followed his word**__; he had delivered us from pain, and thus, his height and wisdom were enough for him to lead us. In this time, we were mostly evil, and we were mostly happy._

_**The Youngest Tallest led his people bravely as he battled against the virtuous Slark**__; although our ties to the water were broken, Slark was ever vigilant in his attempts to sway many back from evil to virtue. Thus, battles at many times arose as the Irkens, the followers of evil, and the Slarkists, the followers of virtue, attempted to convert each other._

Then did the Youngest Tallest come forth again to speak to his people and to the people of Slark; he said that we could be Irken, which is evil, and Slarkist, which is virtuous, at the same time, and no longer fight. Whether we choose to be happily evil or to be painfully virtuous, we are strongest as one tribe, one community, one nation, one race.

_**If one is to be evil, one is to be insolent and unconcerned about what others believe, and hence, one must not fight to defend one's beliefs**__; if one is to be virtuous, one is to be kind and tolerant towards what others believe, and hence, one must not fight to promote one's beliefs. In this way, the Youngest Tallest showed that we, both Slarkist and Irken at once, cannot fight each other._

_**Since then, evil and virtue have lived side by side**__; a follower of either side that would harm the other side is scorned by both sides. This is why the Youngest Tallest is a hero, and thus, over an era, more Slarkist Irkens will turn towards evil than will turn __towards virtue._

_**This is why we give the name of the Youngest Tallest to those who are expected to be the most brave, the most heroic, and the most evil of all Irkens.**_

_**This is why Zim is an honorable name.**_

xxx

The Conveyor Belt Planet was filled with darkness as black and thick as water; not a single beam of natural light filtered more than three or four stories into the planet, obstructed as it was by the hundreds of mechanized belts. The only light in the world came from the paneled walls of the intermittent guard towers that the conveyor belts rolled in and out of and the address labels on the boxes. The Screw-heads, the Alien Drones tending to the boxes, lived among silhouettes and shadows.

The Screw-heads had far from ideal working conditions. A durable race they were, which was why the Irkens had chosen to "assimilate" them, if it could be called that: they made a convenient labor force. They could work for days at a time without sleep because the screws in their heads, the only part of their pre-conquest culture they were allowed to keep, could be twisted _just_ right into their brains to stimulate _just_ the right part of the limbic system to make it impossible for them to fall asleep until a Guard untwisted the screw. The Screw-heads heard rumors that the Irkens had taken the technology of their screws and started adapting it for other purposes; among other failed experiments, the now-Exile Zim had apparently been trying to create a "happiness probe" during his time on Vort.

The Screw-heads wished that he had succeeded. The light-deprived race, while for the most part low-maintenance, could feel happiness only with the help of one very essential ingredient.

Sunlight.

In the sunless darkness, Individual Guards moved among the Alien Drones with thrusters from their Paks. They used hover platforms only when a small swarm of Guards was moving all together, or when someone of significant rank needed transportation and, more importantly, protection.

Protection against what, the Screw-heads never knew. It wasn't as though they were in any condition to fight back. They had been weak enough from misery and too much work to begin with; after their laughable "Labor Union" had attempted to negotiate better terms, they were even worse off—having to work for over a week solid before being allowed a scanty five degrees for sleep. No, they couldn't fight back.

The Drones weakly, tiredly tended to their boxes and packages, eyes half-shut with exhaustion, hands trembling on the levers and buttons. Their bony arms were swallowed in their thick gloves and their exposed ribs cast deep shadows in their yellow skin. Those that still had the energy laboriously raised their gazes as a hover platform passed. They resentfully watched the Guards watching them, but when they caught sight of Tallest Purple, their eyes narrowed in loathing and their lips curled back to expose dark gums. The Tallest visibly suppressed a shiver—cowardly Irken monster—and looked straight forward, refusing to meet the gazes of the Screw-heads.

There was no angry muttering once the hover platform had gone by, as there might have been earlier in their subjugation. There were no talks of rebellion and revolution. There was only work, more work, and one feeble hopeful spark: a memory that not all Irkens were monstrous, that at least one might help the Screw-heads. Exile Bob.

Within a few days of his banishment to the Conveyor Belt Planet, he had made himself a hero among the Screw-heads. He had said that the Irkens oppressed them because they feared anyone they thought inferior, whether it was an alien or someone short of their own race. He had said that the Irkens believed there were two ways to live: one could be evil and happy, or virtuous and miserable, and although the religion that brought forth that idea was almost dead the philosophy itself lived on.

The Irkens made the Screw-heads miserable, Bob had said, because the Screw-heads had been virtuous, obedient, and passive so far. If they rose up as a unified race—if they showed that they could fight back—that they were capable of the very evils the Irkens feared they would commit against them, then the Irkens would give them what they deserved: longer breaks, higher wages, more _sunlight._ And, Bob added, they might just give _him_ the six million monies he was owed.

That was what made the Screw-heads truly trust Bob. Any charitable Irken was an Irken with hidden motives. As long as they knew what Bob expected out of this, they could trust him.

Alas—it was not to be. The Labor Union had been nothing more than a brief amusement for the Tallest, the High Guard Chevre had assigned Bob to a job that kept him far away from any other Screw-heads, and everyone was worse off for their attempt at happiness. Perhaps they hadn't been evil enough.

There was no sunlight in the planet, but there was hellfire. The farther one descended into the planet, the hotter it got, and the hotter it got, the less Screw-heads were assigned to the area; those that did work near the core were the most miserable of all. Down below where packages were labeled, below the levels where items were loaded into each immense crate, the darkness filled with ruddy red, and noises of heavy machinery echoed up from the depths of the planet.

The core of the planet fueled the forges to make the metal boxes that were shipped into space. Immense tanks of molten metal poured their contents into casts, with thin walkways overhead to allow workers to run around, monitoring the formation of the boxes. But only one worker attended the dozens of forges, perpetually running back and forth, until the waves of heat made him too dizzy to move, or the constant exhaustion required him to spend a precious degree, no more than two, pausing to recharge his Pak, or the overwhelming misery finally forced him to his knees, fighting back tears that stung almost as much as the fires. He had done his best, fought his hardest, for nothing. At times, his normally too-bright eyes would dim in misery and he'd gaze in the fire, feeling like a whirlpool was sucking down his hope, wondering whether it would be better to simply _jump._

But the Youngest Tallest had given them another way. He had taught that evil was happiness. As long as an Irken could keep committing evils, they would never have to face Slark again—never have to suffer misery again—never have to kill themselves again. If you tried hard enough, he had said, there was always a different way out of misery.

By the Savior Zim, Bob was trying. But he hadn't found another way yet.

xxx

The first Bob knew that the Tallest wanted to speak with him was when a hover platform descended next to him on the walkway. He was running from the controllers of one forge to another, making sure that everything was running smoothly; if anything went wrong with the forges, it could mean an apocalypse for this planet. Literally.

He hesitated for the briefest moment to glance at the hover platform, but the moment he saw Tallest Purple and High Guard Chevre he put on full speed again, gritting his teeth together. Oh, just wonderful. What in Slark's name could the Tallest want with him? He probably wanted to send Bob to an even more horrible planet, as if this weren't bad enough...

By the time Bob had checked all the meters on this forge and decided everything was running fine, his anger had morphed into terror. He probably was being exiled somewhere worse, wasn't he? "What did I ever do to deserve this?" he whimpered, before holding his breath, shutting his eyes, and sprinting back the way he'd come—he needed to get past the hover platform to reach the other forges, unfortunately. This time, he wasn't running past the Tallest simply to be disrespectful, but as a matter of personal preservation.

If he'd had his eyes open, he might have noticed the two bulky Guards now standing in his way.

"Oof!" Bob slammed into them and fell on his back. He struggled to sit up, tears of pain leaking out of his eyes, when one of the Guards snatched Bob up and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor of the hover platform.

"H-hey, what's going on?" Bob squeaked fearfully. "I have work to do!"

Trembling, he scrambled to his feet and finally looked up at Tallest Purple. He was staring down at Bob with utter disgust. That was all it took to bring back Bob's rage. "YOU! You owe me monies!" He planted his hands on his hips and glared at Purple with righteous indignation. "Where's my six million monies?!"

The Guards looked at Purple, curious. He cleared his throat nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whaddayou mean, you don't—"

"Silence him!" Purple ordered. One of the Guards snatched Bob up with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth. He thought he could feel part of his exoskeleton cracking.

"You're being relocated, _Exile_ Bob," Purple said. "You'll be serving out your banishment on a different world."

So he'd been right! Bob's eyes widened, and he kicked his legs and shook his head frantically, trying to get his mouth free. Purple sighed. "Fine, let him speak."

As soon as Bob's mouth was uncovered, he shouted, "But I can't leave my position! Someone has to run the box forges! If they malfunction, the entire planet could fall apart!"

"It could?" Purple looked uneasily at Chevre. "Really?"

"The forges are fully automated," she said. "They'll be perfectly fine if no one tends them for a few weeks at a time."

"Oh. Good."

Bob gasped softly, and a tear slid down his face. No one had ever told him that. "Y-you mean that I d-didn't really have to keep running back and forth all the time?"

Chevre nodded.

"Why did you m-make me do that?"

"It was funny."

Purple grinned. "I like your sense of humor," he told Chevre. "If we ever lose a High Guard at the Massive, contact me and I'll see what I can do for you, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

Bob glared tearfully at both of them. Cruel fiends, both of them. What was it that made tall Irkens so brutal?

Bob was sometimes scared stiff of taller Irkens. They were merciless, pitiless, heartless monsters, and someday they were going to murder Bob and all the other Drones, he was sure of it. At times, in the eyes of shorter Irkens, tall Irkens could be baffling, horrifying beings, just like dangerous, stupid beasts.

"So there are no problems," Purple said. "You're being relocated."

By this point, Bob was crying freely—what else could he do? He wondered where he would go this time. Blorch? The Vortian concentration camps he'd heard rumors of? A world of pure water? _Abandonia?_

But despite his tears, Bob managed to narrow his eyes and squirm against the hand clamped around his body. "No way! You can't make me!" he said. "I refuse to be pushed around by a false Tallest any longer! I'm not going anywhere!" Any Tallest that consciously tried to hurt another Irken was no Tallest to Bob. He viciously bit at the Guard's hand. The Guard, who was wearing very thick gloves, didn't care.

"Hey, watch who you're talking to," Purple snapped, leaning over Bob. "False Tallest, huh? So you really _are_ a Virtuous Slarkist?"

_"Zimish!"_ Bob spat. "There's a difference!"

"Yeah, whatever. You don't have a choice anyway. If you don't want to go, we can just shove you in a box and ship you to Earth."

The Guards' antennae perked up at the word Earth, and they smiled slightly. Apparently, they thought this was the worse fate possible.

But, to Bob, this was a blessing. He immediately stopped crying in surprise. Surely, he'd heard wrong. "To... to Earth? Where Zim is?"

"Er, yeah, Zim's there," Purple said, clearly confused by Bob's reaction.

Bob nodded slowly. "I see... Why?"

"Um..." Purple glanced at the Guards, as if seeing whether they were listening. "None of your business."

"Huh..." Bob chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. This was a trick. It had to be. Bob couldn't be that lucky—lucky enough to be exiled with _Zim._

The Control Brains had named him after the Youngest Tallest for a reason. Never mind that most Irkens believed that was because the Brains thought it was the only name that satisfied Zim's ego. Perhaps Bob was alone, but he was convinced that Zim would be a hero someday. Besides, Zim had won Bob six million monies and saved him from flying into a star. Bob owed Zim his life and then some. An opportunity to _help_ Zim become the hero Bob knew he would be... This, this was a blessing.

"I would be glad to join Zim on Earth, Tallest Purple."

"Oh, really? So I'm your Tallest again, am I?" Purple asked dryly.

"I never said you were _my_ Tallest," Bob said, tilting his head back to give Purple a challenging look. "Just that you _are_ one."

Purple scowled, but didn't respond. Instead, he turned to the Guard holding him and said, "Can't you hold him a little tighter?"

He held Bob a little tighter. That time he _knew_ he heard his exoskeleton crack.

Purple smirked. "I need to speak with Bob in private about what his exile on Earth will include," he told Chevre. "Where can I do that?"

"You can do that in the control station, my Tallest," Chevre said promptly. "I'll find you an empty room."

"Good," Purple said, clearly ignoring the curious glances of the other Guards, who probably wondered what kind of exile needed private instructions. Perhaps this wouldn't be so much of a blessing after all.

xxx

Once they were alone, the first thing Purple told Bob was that he wasn't really being _exiled_ on Earth, but being included in a mission that could potentially save not only the Irken Empire, but also the entire Irken race.

And from that point on Bob stopped believing him.

"You don't expect me to actually believe you had three offspring with Zim," Bob said, grinning in incredulity.

"Actually, I kinda hope you don't. If you did, I'd probably think you're completely insane," Purple said wearily. Well, maybe this was a good sign. If somehow the empire _did_ hear rumors that Purple was dancing with Zim, perhaps they wouldn't believe it, either. "Just play along until you get to Earth and can actually see the eggs, all right? You can do that, can't you?"

"Well..." Bob lowered his eyes, clearly considering the alternatives. Or wondering how crazy Purple was.

"I should probably mention that if you refuse, I'm tossing you in the forges before you can tell anyone what you know," Purple said.

Bob gulped. "Fine. I'll do this 'mission' on Earth, but only for Zim's sake. If all this _does_ turn out to be fake, at least I'll be able to assist Zim however he needs me."

"You actually want to work for Zim?" Purple said, quirking an antenna curiously. Okay, so maybe Bob was crazy after all. "Why on Irk would you want to get anywhere _near_ him?"

"Because he's respectable," Bob said simply.

Definitely crazy. "You mean you respect _Zim _more than your Tallest?" Purple said, annoyed.

"I don't respect anyone that owes me money," Bob said. Before Purple could argue again that he and Red didn't owe him anything (because they DIDN'T), Bob added, "Besides, I'm already exiled. What else can you do to me?"

Purple smiled grimly. "I could make your journey to Earth that much more unpleasant."

The sudden fright in Bob's eyes was probably the most beautiful thing Purple had seen all day.

xxx

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo entertained himself by keeping track of how many different worlds he sent packages to. Not that he could actually remember them all, but when he saw a package going to a world he didn't recognize the name of, he could briefly find interest in the novelty. Like a few days ago, he was pretty sure that was the first package he'd ever sent to Cheaphookeria. But now he'd seen eight or nine, the novelty was gone, and everything was dreary monotony again.

It hadn't always been that way. Once, he had tried to start a rebellion. From the humble beginnings of switching two labels on packages, perhaps something greater might have come. Once, he had led the Screw-head Labor Union with the only Irken he'd ever met sympathetic to the Screw-heads' plight, Bob. From a few small voices complaining, perhaps a louder cry for change might have arose.

But his rebellion ended in a nasty electric shock that had left his extremities numb for several days. His labor union ended in further oppression that had left his people more destitute and exhausted than ever before. And he was almost ready to give up. Which was why he read the labels for fun. He hoped he'd go insane soon, so that he really _would_ think reading labels was fun.

Now here was an interesting label; tragically familiar, yes, but still interesting in its very nostalgia. "To: ZIM – Earth" the label read. Oh yes, all too familiar. Even fifty years since he'd last seen it, he remembered the label. (Although, admittedly, that wasn't much of a feat, as years on the Conveyor Belt Planet were much shorter than Irken years. But "fifty Screw-head years" sounds much more impressive than "one-fifth of an Irken year" does.) This label was the same as that on one of the packages whose labels he'd switched, when he'd attempted his rebellion. What had the other package said? An Invader, he recalled... Ohhh, how he hated Invaders. It had been Invader Fourr or something like that. Fourr? Twelvve? Tenn? Tenn sounded about right. Yes, Zim and Invader Tenn...

The box shook. Startled, Smikka Smikka Smoodoo stared at it. Was there someone _inside_ it?

Then he heard a voice, very faint: _"Help me, I'm trapped! I can't breathe! They locked me in with a Slaughtering Rat! It's—Oh, great Slark and Zim, not the leg! NOT THE LEG!"_ A muffled shriek echoed through the metal.

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo blinked. He blinked again. And then he let out a very high-pitched laugh. How nice. He thought the box was talking to him. Perhaps he was finally insane. Delightful!

Still tittering madly, he pushed the button with a trembling finger to move the conveyor belt forward, and sent the magical screaming box on its way to a happier place, far away from the remains of the world that had once been the peaceful paradise called Yuphorik, inhabited by the happy Yuphorio people until they were subjugated and belittled with the name "Screw-heads."

He wondered what it would be like to be a magical box.

He wondered what it would be like to be _in_ a box.

An idea struck him like a hammer on his screw. Minus the brain hemorrhaging. Perhaps all hope was not lost. If he couldn't save his fellow Screw-heads, why, perhaps he could save himself still.

With new hope, he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the tops of the boxes as they went by, waiting for one with its lid not welded on quite thoroughly, a box that he could slip into and use to escape.

He paid no more attention to the package to Earth as it was fired into space.

xxx

Homework was never a problem for Zim. Occasionally assignments that required some thought, like short-answer worksheets or essays, were a bit of a nuisance, but if one of his human "friends" wasn't willing to write an essay for him then the Intar-web system was sure to have a premade one; all Zim had to do was send a malware program to destroy the site he'd gotten the essay from, and no one was the wiser.

Math, though, that was much easier, especially after he installed a miniature printer in his Pak. Stick the math book in his Pak, let it do all the calculations automatically, and print out the answers on a piece of notebook paper, of course remembering to print in Zim's handwriting rather than a uniform font. Simple. Math homework took two minutes.

Except today, when it refused to print.

Zim ran an internal check on his Pak four or five times, but couldn't figure out in the slightest what was wrong with it. The printer he'd installed simply refused to acknowledge its own existence; it may as well have not been there. Figured. Zim should have built his own printer, Irken-design. Didn't he know by now not to mix Irken and human technology?

And he had to go to his first day of work at Bloaty's in a few degrees. He didn't have time for this.

"Computer!" Zim shouted, entering the med bay. He wasn't quite sure what it would take to fix this, after all. "Run a diagnostics on my Pak. Find out why the printer isn't working."

"Fine." The computer lowered an arm with a scanning machine on the end, scanned Zim's Pak, then took a moment to process the data it received. "You've got a virus."

Zim's eyes widened. _"Germs?!_ I thought I got rid of them all!" Zim leaped on the surgical table, as if he could escape the insidious germs from up there.

"Computer virus, Master."

"Oh." Zim sheepishly got down. "How did I get a computer virus?"

"I 'unno. But it's a bad one. I'll try to identify it." The computer hummed for a moment. "Got it. Virus identified as Epileprosy. Epileprosy computer virus spreads through the Internet's electronic mailing system or through data transfers between computer systems. Epileprosy completely destroys any computer system it comes into contact with, and can affect both Irken and human computers. It got your printer."

"Huh?!" Zim opened is Pak and pulled the printer free. No wonder his Pak couldn't even tell it was there; it had become a twisted chunk of melted circuitry and plastic casing. Zim gulped. "And this Epileprosy is in my Pak?"

"Yeah," the computer said. "But it won't affect you. Epileprosy only attacks computer systems. Paks are... well, they're just... you know, they're _Paks._ They're all circuity and wirey, but they're like the not-computer. You know?"

"Uh... not really. You're saying it's not a danger to my Pak?"

"Pretty much. It's still a danger to any computers your Pak interacts with, though."

Zim squinted an eye suspiciously. "But I've interacted with you. Why don't you have Epileprosy, huh?"

Proudly, the computer said, "Epileprosy can't get through Macintosh firewalls."

"Hmph." Zim started pacing the med bay, thinking. He still needed to get his math homework done before tomorrow, and he had to go to work soon. How was he supposed to get it finished if he couldn't simply print out the answers?

Zim was jerked from his thoughts by a boom and a violent quake that knocked him over. He scrambled up on his Pak-legs as the trembling subsided. "Computer! What on Irk was that?!"

"A package from the Conveyor Belt Planet," the computer said. "Contents unknown."

"A package?! Zim didn't order anything!" But wait—hadn't Tallest Purple promised Zim a Drone servant? This had to be it.

Zim grinned. "Computer, take me to the ground level!" he shouted as he ran out of the med bay and towards the lift. "I have a slave to acquire!"

xxx

Bob had only survived the trip because the Slaughtering Rat Person had suffocated and died on the journey to Earth. He himself hadn't suffocated because his Pak had been able to filter and re-filter the air, sucking every possible molecule of oxygen out of the air. Yet however efficient his Pak could be, there was still only a limited amount of oxygen in the sealed box. Bob was trying not to black out and clutching his antennae to block out some of the stench of dead Rat Person when his box slammed down on solid ground.

His head swam with pain, vertigo, and oxygen deprivation. "Owie." He took a moment to figure out where gravity was and then shakily got on his knees. How did he get out of the box? Woozily, he wondered why he was in a box to begin with. And what was that smell?

A point of light appeared in the dark, white hot. Bob followed it dizzily as it moved in a circle, then vanished. That had been odd. What was...

With a creak and metallic squeal, the portion of the box that had been cut through with a laser fell forward, landing flat on the floor at Bob's feet. Cold, fresh air rushed into the box. Bob stumbled out, mumbling in relief to the benevolently evil savior, "Oh, thank you, mighty Zim."

"Yeah, you're welcome," a voice said.

Startled, Bob looked towards the voice. He _recognized_ that voice. Automatically, as all Drones learn to do, he said, "Exile Bob, reporting for duty, sir!" He saluted as well as he could, still dizzily swaying off-balance. The gravity was a bit higher on Earth than on the Conveyor Belt Planet, not enough to really hinder his movements but enough to make him feel just a bit unbalanced.

Zim surveyed Bob as he tried to focus his vision. "Hey, have I met you before?"

"Yes sir, Zim, sir. You saved my life."

"Oh. Yeah, of course I did." Zim smirked proudly.

He looked weird. Bob frowned, puzzled. "Are you... taller, sir?"

"Ya-huh!" Zim nodded. "Tallest Purple thinks I'm so amazing, I deserved to be taller. Hey, how tall are you?"

"Negative thirty-six units, sir," Bob admitted. "But I'm only four years old! My projected height is four units." It was probably the greatest mercy in the empire that Irkens under an era old were legally protected from height-based bias, since they hadn't reached their full height yet. Although that was changing, now that there were projected heights; a smeet -20 units in height could freely harass another -20 unit smeet if he knew that he himself would grow to 150 units, and the other would grow to only 50 units. But surely Zim, the shortest (or former shortest) fully-grown Irken alive, would show more compassion for small Irkens.

"Hah!" Zim crowed. "Four units? _Pitiful!"_

Or, Bob decided, maybe Zim's former height meant his taunts were nothing more than good-natured razzing. That could work, too.

Still thinking Zim looked weird, Bob asked, "Sir, what's that stuff on your face?"

"Eh? This?" Zim pointed at the black thing on his head and the whitish things over his eyes. "This is my disguise! It keeps the stupid humans from finding out I'm an alien. Genius, no?"

"Yes sir, very clever," Bob said. And to him, it was. He'd never received Invader training, he didn't know whether or not Zim's disguise was any good. He pointed at Zim's stomach. "Is that part of your disguise, too?"

Perhaps humans were rather rotund, because Zim's stomach appeared to be slightly swollen, rounded out. It didn't look soft, like something was between his internal exoskeleton and his skin, but hard, like something beneath the bone, bulging outwards. It could just be a shield or something under his clothes...

"Don't be stupid!" Zim said, grimacing. "Zim is growing—" He paused. "Tallest Purple told you about the... growy eggy thing... right?"

The... the _what?_ Yes, the Tallest had said something, but he hadn't believed... Bob nodded, dumbstruck.

"Yeah, that's what it is."

Bob was speechless. So, that whole crazy story was true? Zim really had created offspring with Purple? That was insane! Impossible!

But it was true?

"Hey, I need to go," Zim said. "You, Drone-slave!"

"Yes?"

"Are you ready for your first assignment?"

"Yes sir!" Bob said eagerly, realizing if the story was true, that made Zim more of a hero for going through such trials, and so he'd need Bob's help even more. Still, he rather hoped this assignment wasn't anything life threatening...

"Good. Here." Zim took something out of his Pak and shoved it in Bob's chest. It was flat, rectangular, and unsealed on three sides so it could open. Things as thin as snack wrappers filled the inside, perhaps some form of paper. Was this a "book"? A _real_ book? Bob had always wanted to see a book!

"Chapter 7.4, page 614, problems 21 to 31; chapter 8.4, page 673, problems 7, 9, 11, 21, 25, 27, and 41 to 48; and chapter 8.5, page 682, problems 1 to 13. Be done by the time I return from work." Zim marched past Bob, grinning in self-satisfaction.

Bob stared after Zim, then at the massive book in his arms. "Okaaay..." he awkwardly carried it inside Zim's base, sat on the ground, and flipped it open. He had no idea what Zim's order had meant, but perhaps it would make more sense once he saw the inside of the book...

He stared at the pages. What strange language was this in?! Bob couldn't understand a single character on the page. Blinking his eyes furiously to hold back tears, he said meekly, "H-hello? Is there a, a SIR Unit or something here? Anything? Help?"

A disembodied voice spoke: "Gir is down in the SLP chamber. I'm here, though."

"A computer!" Bob sighed in relief. "Thank Slark. Do you know the Earth language? Can you teach it to me?"

"I don't feel like it."

"What?!" Bob felt his eyes starting to water again. "But you're a _computer!_ You're supposed to help Irkens when they need it!"

"Yeah, I guess... But I don't want to."

The first few painful tears slid down Bob's face. "Please?"

"Uh..." The computer made an indecisive whining sound. "Er... Okay, fine! I mean, you _did_ say please... Just stop _doing_ that. It makes me feel all bad and stuff."

"Sure thing!" Bob wiped his eyes, instantly cheerful. "You can feel?"

"It's a Macintosh thing."

"Oh." Bob had no idea what that meant.

A tentacle came down from the ceiling and plugged into Bob's Pak. It added a new language to his translation program, then retracted. "There you go. That's one of them, at least. It's all you need for now."

"Thank you, computer!" Bob turned back to the book, ready to get to work on Zim's assignment.

With growing horror, he read the page: _"21. Without using your calculator or doing any calculations, describe the graph that will be drawn by the parametric equations x5cos(t)+3 and y6sin(t)-1..."_ What was _this?_ "Computer? Are you sure you gave me the right language?"

"Yeah, it's right," the computer said.

"What IS this stuff?!"

"Uh... I don't know. Maybe... subliminal FBI mind-control messages?"

"I can't do a subliminal assignment!" Once again, tears built up in his eyes as he started to panic. "What do I do?!"

"Call the FBI?"

"What will _they_ do?"

"Probably arrest you for being an alien."

Bob bit his lip anxiously. Somehow, he got the feeling that Zim wasn't going to consider him a very good assistant.

xxxxx


	21. Glaring Anomaly

A/N: I almost forgot to do one of these. Hmm...

Up until now, I haven't mentioned my two newer betas, one official and one unofficial; Alohilani on FFnet (the official) and Teufel-Hof on LJ (the unofficial). Thank you both SO much. You give awesome advice and you're awesome friends to boot.

So, now for chapter 21. I hope you enjoy, and please remember to review! (And really, I _know_ there are a lot of you out there reading this. It doesn't hurt to leave a quick review.)

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Glaring Anomaly

xxx

From a report written by Exile Bob on Tues. Feb. 2: _Day 9 on Earth with Zim. I've learned that the human faction in control of the zone where our base is located calls its territory the "land of opportunity," which they claim means that anyone, regardless of their background, can do anything. That's probably a gross exaggeration, but by Slark, if Zim can claim to be an Invader again, then I can say I'm an Anthropologist! So I'm spending my free time on Earth anthropologing things._

_Yes, it's true. I have some free time. It's AWESOME._

_I've been studying human behavior through their teevy programs. Once you know how to sort out factual programs from fictional ones, it's really informative. Their religions are pretty interesting. I'll have to do a more formal documentation on them later._

_Their most popular religion is devoted to the worship of a human that's supposedly descended from a god, who came to say something like all humans should give up their sins and when they die they'll go to a paradise. Somehow. That religion is related to two other religions that all think the universe was created with Earth at the center, and humanity was made in the god's image._

_That's utterly stupid. I mean, really, who believes that? Even way out on Earth, the humans should know that Irk is the center of the universe and that the only race Slark cares about is the Irkens. Why would He have an offspring with some lowly human, anyway? Any offspring Slark has are going to be giant sea monsters, not humans. Period._

_They say that snacking (they call it gluttony) and evil in general is bad: "ideal" human morality is pretty close to Virtuous Slarkist, with a few differences._

_Here's the difference: almost all human religions say that dancing—or "sex," as they call it (silly name for dancing)—is sinful outside of some sort of union, which doesn't make sense to me. What kind of union are they talking about? Labor union? But anyway, the important part is that they treat it like a SIN. And say you SHOULDN'T do it. Except humans do anyway, but they still say it's bad._

_But to them, there's no dividing line between miserable virtue and happy evil. Humans think that it's possible to be happy and virtuous at the same time, and that if you're evil, you'll eventually be miserable._

_How does that make sense? Does that even work? I've never heard something so crazy before, but humans have plenty of fiction on teevy about virtuous characters defeating evil characters and being happy at the end, so they apparently think it does. I don't know. It sounds counterintuitive to me._

_Maybe humans really can be virtuous and happy at once. It'd be neat if Irkens could do that. It's hard to be evil all the time. But the consequences of being virtuous are just too great._

xxx

It didn't take Bob long to learn Zim's schedule. From about 65° to 145°, five days out of seven, he was at the Joonier Hi Skool. From 205° until 50° the next morning, every day, he was at Bloaty's Pizza Hog. That meant on school days Zim was only at the base about 75°, less than thirty-five percent of the day; the rest of the time, Bob was in charge of handling the chaos.

He wondered how Zim had ever survived on his own.

In Bob's first three days in the base, he stopped a rogue Meekrob high on some ultraviolet-based hallucinogenic from stealing Zim's TV; found a hen pecking at several rather important wires in a subterranean level of the base and the computer recording the process (the computer claimed that this sort of thing was all the rage on the Internet among certain fetish sites); averted two nuclear meltdowns on the same day; and kept Gir from letting in the base a policeman, a rodeo clown, a door-to-door cocaine salesman, a hip-hop substitute teacher, a skinny crazy guy with red hair who claimed to have created the universe ("But only this HORRIBLE version of it," he said), a French maid, a Swedish maid, a Peruvian maid, and the Pope. Then Bob learned he had a malware program in his Pak.

"But it's okay, it doesn't hurt Paks. I got it from Zim and you got it from me and we're all okay," the computer said.

"It doesn't affect us? What about Gir, does he have it?"

"Uh... hard to tell. When he explodes it's usually got nothing to do with viruses."

"That's some lame malware," Bob said.

"Not really. It pretty much destroys anything that isn't a Macintosh or a Pak. Or Gir."

And thus Bob learned the first and most important lesson of living with Zim: If you give emergencies the worry they deserve, you'll never survive with your sanity intact. Simply assume that everything is perfectly normal.

After that, managing Zim's base became much easier.

When Bob arrived, Zim still had three weeks before having the eggs. (He informed Bob ahead of time that he wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the med bay while the eggs were being laid, and Bob was more than happy to oblige.) In those few weeks, Bob tried to show his idol that he could be a useful assistant. He wanted Zim to see him not as mere Drone sent out here to do a duty, but as someone who really _believed_ in Zim and wanted him to succeed.

In short, he completely sucked up to Zim.

Two weeks after Bob's arrival, Zim was starting to look quite big from the eggs. He claimed that he hadn't been this big a mere week before laying the eggs the last time around, and this worried him; Bob got the sense that Zim had already had some bad experiences with the eggs.

"Computer, Bella and Dorito were smaller, weren't they?" Zim asked, pacing the living room. "I'm sure I wasn't this big at three weeks with them!"

"Yeah, you're a little bigger than you were last time," the computer said.

"I knew it!" Zim turned to Bob, who was sitting on the living room couch. "Why is this different?" he demanded.

"Er..." Bob bit his lip, thinking hard. Most normal people would ignore Zim's random questions, basically because Zim would ignore their answers. Bob, however, was attempting to impress Zim. Even if he was completely ignored, he at least had to put some effort into an answer. "How many eggs did you have last time?" There was no response. "Zim, sir?"

"I mean there's _got_ to be a reason—Eh?" Zim stopped, looking at Bob. "Did you say something?"

"How many eggs did you have last time, sir?" Bob repeated.

"Two. Why?"

"Four," the computer corrected. "Two died."

"Feh. Details!"

That wasn't very many eggs. "Maybe you have more this time?" Bob suggested. "I don't know much about this stuff, sir, but didn't most layers have about seven eggs at a time?"

_"More_ eggs?" The suggestion seemed to worry Zim, who started pacing again. "What if it _is?_ That could be horrible! What if I end up with twenty?!"

"I... think that's impossible, sir," Bob said. "An Irken can only make up to ten eggs at a time."

"Then I'm just amazing," Zim said proudly. Bob thought he was a little wacky if he really thought he could have twenty eggs at a time, but, then again, they'd called the Youngest Tallest wacky, too.

"Really, it will probably be about seven eggs, sir. I bet that's why you're bigger this time than last time." And he really _was_ getting big, too. And round. Bob had only seen Irkens with their bodies shaped like Zim's in old historical pictures and diagrams, from back before Geneticists found a way to remove genitalia from the Irken genetic code. Looking at Zim made Bob feel like he was somehow talking to a historical figure, someone who had lived many eras ago. It made Exile Zim seem even more like the Youngest Tallest Zim. Except for the fact that the Youngest Tallest had supposedly been a fertilizer, but regardless...

"How do you know that stuff about eggs, anyway?" Zim asked, narrowing an eye suspiciously. (Bob wasn't sure what Zim had reason to be suspicious about, but a great many things Zim did never seemed to have a reason.)

"I'm an... I was supposed to be an Anthropologist, sir," Bob said. "I like studying Irken history, mainly the Antecontactum Period." The Antecontactum Period stretched from the birth of the Youngest Tallest (marking the advent of Slarkism and the end of the Wet Ages) to the first alien contact the Irkens received: a curious satellite that crashed on the planet with a video message from a race that called itself Vortian.

"Pfft. Big deal." Zim made a dismissive gesture. "Anthropology is for losers."

"Excuse me!" Bob said, hurt. "But I—"

"Why are you a Drone now?" Zim demanded, completely abandoning his previous train of thought.

"I... er..." Bob couldn't very well go back and defend his former career since Zim had just completely changed topics. So he sighed resignedly and said, "I had to quit training. My projected height is four units, so I'd never be allowed to be an actual Anthropologist. You know how it is for... for Irkens like us, don't you? Sir?"

Zim narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he hissed.

Bob bit his lip. He hadn't meant to offend Zim. "I'm sor—"

"I'd _never_ be a Drone," Zim continued, sneering at the thought that any Irken _would._ Bob figured that was all he'd get out of Zim on that topic.

But despite his scorn, he added, almost angrily, "The Control Brains said I'd be a Frylord."

"They... did? Really?" Bob had never heard of Zim being in Food Service before, except during his banishment after Operation Impending Doom I.

"What? You doubt my frycooky skills?" Zim glared at Bob.

"No sir, I'd never—"

"Well, I could have been great!" he said indignantly. "But I switched to Soldier training when I figured out I'd be... not all... tallishy. Ya know?"

Bob nodded enthusiastically. "I understand, I really do! And—I think it was great that you became an Invader, sir! You're like a..." He paused to rub at his eyes; he was getting too enthusiastic, which always choked him up. "You're a... hero, Zim. To all of us."

Corny as he sounded, he wasn't exaggerating. The media villainized Zim, that was true: Announcers and Correspondents loved finding new ways to enhance the infamy of Zim, the smallest Irken and the largest danger the empire had ever known. But Announcers and Correspondents, given their jobs, were the news media faces of the Irken Empire. They were the Irkens that everyone saw, which meant they had to be the best Irkens that could be produced, so they had to be tall. Bob doubted there was a single Announcer alive under 130 units—of course they hated Zim.

They hated Zim for the same reason the Drones tentatively praised him: he didn't fit in the strict Irken hierarchy. Even after being exiled, he still made the news every few dozen days, apparently as determined to remain a part of the Irken Empire as he was to mess it up. After all, Zim was a short Irken, but he wasn't a Drone or Janitor or Menial Mechanic; he aspired to power and fame, to Inventor and Invader, but he wasn't tall. He was not merely a defect, but a glaring anomaly in an otherwise flawless social system.

Sure, he had some destructive tendencies, but while the elite of Irk thought it was just part of his nature as a short Irken, the undersized underclass thought differently. Destruction was the only way Zim could make himself known. Whether or not he realized it consciously, if he wanted attention, then becoming Irk's unintentional enemy was a far better method of attracting it than being another of Irk's quiet followers. Zim couldn't have hit on a better strategy to make his name known.

Zim wasn't scary just because of the flood of disasters that seemed to follow him from world to world. There was also a _suggestion_ in his actions, an evil idea as welcome to the short Irkens as the Youngest Tallest's sinful suggestion had been welcome to the Irken race at large: the suggestion that the gap between tall and short Irkens could be crossed.

The more infamy Zim amassed, the closer he came to representing evil incarnate. True, that evil was more often aimed at the Irken Empire than wielded by it, but evil is evil.

To Bob, if Zim could achieve that power, then any Irken could, regardless of height. To Bob, Zim was hope.

"Of course I'm a hero! I am _Zim!"_ he said, and then abruptly switched topics again. "So you know about eggs, huh? Is it safe for an Irken my height to have that many at once?"

"Seven-ish? It _should_ be," Bob said uncertainly. He'd heard somewhere that there was a lower limit of safety in height for laying eggs, but was fairly sure that Zim was now above that height. (Bob would admit that it was a slight disappointment that Zim was no longer the shortest Irken alive; it took away something of his notorious reputation. Then again, Zim was still pretty short. A lot taller than Bob would ever be, but nevertheless, still short.) "Yeah, it's fine. You'll be okay, sir."

"I'd better be," Zim muttered.

xxx

A week later, Zim laid his eggs. There were indeed seven; one, however, had YY chromosomes, which meant it was dead from the start. That's how the computer explained it to Bob, who was sitting in the kitchen while Zim was in the med bay. The computer kept up a running commentary of the process of egg-extraction, which was graphic enough that Bob had to fill a cup with water from the kitchen sink and pour it over his head to keep from getting too nauseous. He wondered why that creeped out most Irkens when he did it; the Slarkists really had the right idea when they said that pain was a welcome alternative to misery.

Virtuous Slarkists, to remain virtuous, were allowed to dance but not to snack; Zimish Slarkists, to irk the Virtuous Slarkists, were allowed to snack but not to dance. Bob was mostly fine with this since not many people wanted to dance with someone his size anyway. (Besides, since the Youngest Tallest promoted sin, most transgressions of Zimish commandments were smiled upon anyway. A win-win situation.) Luckily, Zim had some pretty good snacks, so Bob could use them to calm himself down from the far too detailed descriptions, although he did have to dump a couple more cups of water on his head. He had to give that up when he started forming rashes on his head.

The whole ordeal took just over fifty degrees. The computer's commentary finally ended, and a couple of degrees later a very weary-looking Zim emerged from the toilet, stumbled to the table, and wordlessly snatched Bob's box of cookies for himself. Bob watched helplessly as his snack was devoured, then sighed and got another box.

Zim managed to swallow a couple of huge mouthfuls before stopping and squinting at Bob's burn-covered face. Zim's eyes were dull from whatever weird painkillers that human boy had supplied him with, and his eyelids were puffy from exhaustion. His limbs were trembling, and his exoskeleton was still arched funny in the back from having to conform to the weight of seven eggs, so he looked slightly hunchbacked. His right antenna lay limp along the top of his head, as if it were broken, while his left antenna twitched erratically from the painkillers. Zim blearily surveyed Bob's face, and then croaked, "You look horrible."

Bob chuckled wearily. "Yeah? Well, you should see what _you_... ah, never mind." It wasn't worth the trouble.

Zim didn't even acknowledge that Bob had spoken before turning back to his snack. It took only three more mouthfuls for him to finish off the box of cookies. He dropped the empty box on the table, straightened his back as well as he could, and then headed for the trash can. "I'll have to call the Tallest later," he mumbled. "He needs to know that—"

Zim promptly fell to the ground in a dead faint.

"S-sir?" Bob leaped down from his chair. Oh, Irk's Savior, this wasn't good. He had to wake Zim. Bob ran to the sink, filled up a cup of water, and ran back to Zim's side to dump it on his head.

"I wouldn't do that," the computer said. "Master won't like it, and then he'll yell at both of us."

"Huh? Oh, right." Zim wasn't Slarkist, unfortunately. He probably wouldn't appreciate a cupful of water in his face. But Zim's Pak was whirring now as it filtered air for him, so he obviously wasn't in any immediate danger. It seemed Bob would just have to wait for Zim to wake up.

Bob set his cup of water on the kitchen table and sighed. "Why are you going through so much for the Tallest?" he asked Zim's unconscious form. "They hate us, you know. They'd gladly kill Irkens like us, if they didn't need someone to serve them drinks and stuff."

Zim didn't stir. This was the first time Bob had ever seen Zim completely quiet. His face was still, though not quite calm; even unconscious, Zim's eyelids were scrunched closed like he was consciously holding them shut, and was just preparing to snap his eyes wide open.

"How can you be so _loyal,_ after what they've done to us?" Bob demanded. "Why don't you hate them?! You of ALL Irkens should know how cruel the Tallest can—"

"Master can't hear you, you know."

Bob paused. "Uh, yeah. I know."

Zim wouldn't be happy if he woke up and found no progress had been made on his mission, so Bob figured he was the one who had to call the Tallest—no matter how much the Tallest hated Bob and Zim. He gave Zim's exhausted form one last, concerned look, before he climbed into the trashcan and descended into the subterranean base.

xxx

It was sheer coincidence that Purple was in his quarters when he received a transmission from Earth. It was nowhere near 160°. The time, in fact, was 63°. Couldn't Zim remember anything about his instructions?

Purple had left the door to his quarters open because he'd planned on just grabbing some snacks (Red ALWAYS made Purple get more snacks) and leaving again. He shut and locked the door before answering the transmission. "Zim, you idiot, what do you think..." Purple stared at Bob. "Oh. You."

Bob's eyes immediately glimmered with outraged tears. "Idiot?! You'd call Zim that after all he's gone through—"

"Yeah yeah yeah, what do you want?" Purple snapped. He didn't feel like putting up with a melodramatic Drone. "Why are you calling so early? Did something go wrong?"

It _was_ about the day Zim was supposed to have his eggs, after all. But with Dorito and Bella, he'd at least waited until the correct time to contact Purple. Why not this time? And why had he sent Bob to contact Purple instead of taking the opportunity to brag himself? And why had Bob gotten upset so easily when Purple had said something bad about Zim? Did something happen?

Visions of Zim half-dead, sprawled in a shallow pool of his own blood, body split open and peeled back, internal exoskeleton cracked apart, cold metal blades moving in and out—the images seared through Purple's mind. In a flash of panic, Purple leaned over the screen. "Bob! What's wrong? What happened to Zim?!"

"Uh—he had the eggs," Bob said, startled.

"What else? Is he hurt?"

"Nooo..." Bob shook his head slowly, giving Purple an odd look.

Purple relaxed. Slightly. "Then why are you contacting me right now?"

"To... tell you about the eggs?" Bob said. "What, am I not supposed to contact you now?"

"Yes! Didn't Zim tell you?" Purple said, exasperated. "You're only supposed to contact me between 160 and 180 degrees."

"Oh." Bob's antennae drooped sheepishly. "I didn't know that."

"You do now. So remember it!" Purple sighed, trying not to show how nervous he'd been. "If you EVER scare me like that again, I'll..." He couldn't think of a suitable punishment. "I'll cut off one of your antennae or something. Something worse. Yeah."

Bob nodded slowly. "You were... scared for Zim?"

"Shut up. Where is he, anyway?" Purple had thought Zim would never pass up an opportunity to contact his Tallest.

"Passed out from exhaustion after laying the eggs," Bob said coldly, eyes fixed accusatorily on Purple's face.

"What? I thought you said he was okay!"

"He is." Bob suddenly looked uncertain. "I think."

"What do you mean, 'I think'? Is Zim okay or not?!"

"Uh..."

Purple heard an automatic door whoosh open behind Bob, and a moment later a bleary-eyed Zim trudged into view. He blinked at Bob, mumbled, "Wrong floor," and turned to leave.

"Zim? You alright?" Purple asked.

"Eh?" Zim stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Purple, puzzled. His left antenna was jerking around oddly, but his right one was currently limp; Purple wondered if Zim could hear right. (Well, he wondered that a lot of the time, but now more so than usual.) "There's six," Zim said, and trudged off again. "Recharge..."

That had been a random and completely useless encounter. "He's okay," Purple concluded. "You, Bob. I'm going to be on Earth in a few degrees. If Zim's not up yet, you let me in. Understood?"

"Okay," Bob said. "Er, before you go, I'm just wondering... were you really _that_ worried about Zim?"

"He's a walking disaster, who wouldn't be worried?" Purple said, before realizing what Bob was hinting at. "I mean—NO! That's stupid! Zim's stupid! _You're_ stupid! Not that way! It's for the mission! None of your business! Nosy Drone!"

"Okay, okay, sorry!" Bob said, cowering fearfully, just like a typical Drone.

"I hope you are," Purple hissed, then ended the transmission. Of all the idiotic questions...

Of course Purple didn't actually care about Zim. They were simply working on this mission together, and that meant they happened to currently be dance partners. Purple's concern for Zim was because he was necessary for the mission—there was no correlation between the dancing and the worry.

Maybe Zim wasn't as horrible as Purple used to think, but there were billions of non-horrible Irkens in the empire and Purple didn't care all that much about any of them, so why should he care about Zim? His list of friends was quite exclusive, and Zim wasn't on it.

In fact, that list was pretty much limited to Red, huh? Oh well, Purple figured that made sense. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that... wait, what in the Firmament did that have to do with anything?

Okay, well, Purple had been a bit detached from Red lately, hadn't he? And he'd certainly been very close to Zim in the past few weeks, in a physical sense. Which meant Red was close and Zim was closer, so Zim was still an enemy. Hah. Sometimes Purple _could_ have a smart thought.

Never mind that Purple _had_ been worried for Zim—and ridiculously defensive the moment Bob suggested that Purple might, just a little bit, like Zim. He could worry about all that later.

Right now, he had to come up an excuse that his single friend might accept for why he'd gone to his room to get snacks and ended up having to leave the Massive again. Could he use Foodcourtia for an excuse again? He'd been using Foodcourtia a lot lately. Then again, there was something to be said for consistent stories. Purple would have an easier time remembering them. So, Foodcourtia. He could say he'd just gotten a transmission that said some extra-good Sintillate candies had just been imported and he wanted to grab some before they sold out. Yeah, that would work on Red...

Then, to Earth, where he'd have to deal with Bob until Zim had recharged. Purple also needed to explain to Bob exactly what he had to do to take care of the eggs, now that he had some in his care. Purple scowled at the thought as he left his quarters. "I hate short Irkens," he muttered.

xxx

Bob sighed in relief as the transmission ended. That could have gone a lot better. Starting with contacting the Tallest at the right time. 160° to 180°. Why had no one told _him_ about that?

He supposed this meant he was in charge of the base until Zim had recharged. "Computer, are the eggs safe?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Thank you."

"And you," the computer said proudly, "are very welcome." Bob had the sense that the computer didn't get the chance to say "you're welcome" very often.

He got on the lift. "Take me to the hangar, please."

"Sure." While the lift rose, Bob wondered what he'd say when he saw Tallest Purple. He'd have to deal with him until Zim woke up, wouldn't he? Great.

As he stepped off the lift, Bob muttered, "I hate tall Irkens."

xxx

Red didn't ask any questions as Purple explained why he was leaving the Massive again. He said bye, wished Purple luck with the Sintillate snacks, and nothing else. Of course, procuring snacks from Sintillia was a worthy goal, but something about Purple's explanation had seemed off.

First, Red was pretty sure he would have heard before Purple if there were any rare Sintillate candies to be had. Second, as dopey as Purple could be, there was no way it wouldn't occur to him to simply contact the merchant with the snacks and order him to ship some of the snacks to the Massive. There was no need for Purple to go to Foodcourtia himself.

Something was up with Purple. He'd been acting strange for too long—first running off after Zim's freaky transmission, now all these trips off the Massive without giving Red any real information. He couldn't think of more than three or four times in their past six years as Tallest that they'd been apart, until the past few weeks.

Then there was the fact that Purple hadn't danced with Red in Irk knew how long; he wasn't sure if Pur had been dancing at all recently. Purple was secretive, suspicious, bordering on paranoid, almost jumping at every transmission.

And speaking of transmissions, it occurred to Red that Zim had been weird lately, too. Weirder than usual. In the two transmissions he'd sent recently, he was dying in the first one and had ended the transmission after two sentences in the second one. Plus, he usually bothered the Massive every three days at least. Why hadn't he been making so many transmissions lately?

That didn't have anything to do with Purple, Red knew that. And yet... Zim's freaky transmission had been on the same day Purple vanished. It didn't mean anything, of course it didn't, yet Red couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, it _was_ significant.

Either way, he had to do something about Purple.

But he had no idea what. He knew he wasn't much of a Tallest—he'd be clueless without Purple to help him. However, he couldn't exactly ask Purple for help this time, could he? So what else was he supposed to do? His Advisors were stupid, he didn't trust anyone shorter than them, he certainly couldn't handle this himself... Voids, why did Red have to be a Tallest to begin with?! The Control Brains had said he'd never be a good leader—

Wait. Why hadn't Red thought of _that?_

Red turned to a random Taller Advisor (what was his name, again?) and said, "Hey you. When's my next vacation?"

"Uh..." The Advisor quickly pulled a digital planner from his Pak. "You're scheduled for a five-day vacation in twenty-six days."

"I see." Right, Red had been planning to spend the vacation on Cheaphookeria, which he'd heard was already turning into a wonderfully seedy planet. There were rumors that the Planet had quite a few businesses set up for xenophiles, with the strictest confidentiality contracts. It had been far too long since Red had been with a Vortian... But, that would have to wait until his next vacation. For this one, he was going to Judgmentia. Turning to one of the Comm Techs, he said, "You, contact the Control Brains. Give them the days of my vacation and tell them to clear a space in that time for me to speak with them."

"Yes, sir."

Red wished he'd thought of that before. Of course the Control Brains would be able to help. They recorded every trip of every ship in the Irken Empire, every transaction of every money, every recharge cycle of every Pak, every query and command of every computer, every transcript of every transmission. They would know where Purple went, what he was doing, whom he was with, why he was with them.

If anyone would be able to help Red figure out what Purple had been up to, the Control Brains would.

xxxxx


	22. Fuzzy Feelings

A/N: It is almost not-Friday in my part of the world. I'm sorry for the late update. I thought getting out of school would mean more time to work on fic. Instead, it means more time to be lazy.

And by the gods, I've been lazy. It is a _glorious_ feeling.

Anyway, here's chapter 22. I hope you enjoy, and please remember to review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Fuzzy Feelings

xxx

An excerpt from a document written by Vortian Rigma Role, approx. one Earthen year after the Irken conquest of Vort: _I know I'm crap at research, and I figure that's probably the only reason I'm not locked up on Vort in a military research prison. But if all the good researchers are locked up, then I've gotta do what I can. When Vort is free again, we don't want our time under Irken oppression to have been wasted._

_Basically, if you're Vortian and not in prison, you've got three options: hook up with a rebel faction, work as a mechanic, or hire yourself out as a "dancer" to Irken xenophiles. I'm a cruddy mechanic, I can't find the Resisty, and the Plookesians I was hitchhiking with dumped me in some Judgmentia slums, so guess what I'm doing. Well, Mater always told me I had no shame. Best put my shamelessness to good use..._

_As long as I'm here, I figured I could get a first-hand look at Irken emotions, particularly love and lust._

_I've yet to hear of a case of an Irken cheating on some other mate with a dancer. I asked Da Pimp (my boss; he still doesn't know why I call him that) if that meant only single Irkens hired dancers. He didn't even understand me. He said no, sometimes two or three will hire a dancer together. (Add that to occupational hazards to avoid.) And that's when things got interesting._

_Once I clarified, Da Pimp said that Irkens don't pair up, either for a few years, like Vortians, or for life. They can have friends that they dance with regularly, sometimes one best friend whom they almost exclusively dance with, but everyone's available to everyone else. There's no long-term mating, partnership, whatever._

_Da Pimp, when I asked about love, said it's uncommon among Irkens. Not suppressed, but simply uncommon. (I bet it's more common than he thinks, since most "not-suppressed-but-uncommon" phenomena are actually common-but-suppressed. But anyway.) He said that it happens, but rarely, partially because Irkens aren't designed to focus so much energy on someone other than themselves and partially because it's hard to stay evil and self-centered if you're worried about someone else's welfare as much as your own, and I guess that's true._

_He also said that when Irkens DO fall in love, even if it's mutual, oftentimes both parties will come to a mutual agreement to fall OUT of love, so that they can focus on more important things: their snacking, their dancing, their jobs, their Empire. Most Irkens disdain of love._

_(I'll leave it to the minds of greater Vortian researchers into Irken psychology than me to figure out why that is. I heard the Schola Institute had some great studies on Irken society going on.)_

_However, Da Pimp said he's in the minority, because he likes love. Particularly, he likes when a customer loves one of his dancers, because it means they'll keep coming back and paying extra for that dancer._

_The Tallest must adore little pissheads like him._

xxx

Tallest Purple's first question upon seeing Zim was "There's six what?" and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what Purple was talking about.

He couldn't remember anything between collapsing in the kitchen and regaining consciousness in the recharge chamber, about forty degrees later. Apparently, while Bob had been talking to Purple (Zim made a mental note to yell at Bob for bothering Purple at the wrong time), Zim had wandered by and said, "There's six." Zim claimed that Purple had heard him wrong, since obviously, "There's six," meant absolutely nothing.

"Oh, by the way," Zim added, "I had six eggs this time! Isn't that neat?"

Purple rolled his eyes. "Amazing." Zim didn't understand why he wasn't more impressed.

They were getting better at dancing together. Each was slowly growing accustomed to the other's body; Zim was learning how to stretch himself, Purple how to bend himself, until they fit together without even having to think about it. And once they had that down, Zim had a hard time remembering that this was supposed to be a mission.

Purple certainly wasn't helping Zim remember that. He wasn't acting like this was business—he was moving quickly, impatiently, eagerly, legs bent beneath Zim and body bent over him, and if Zim didn't know better he'd have thought Purple hadn't danced since he'd last seen Zim.

But that, clearly, wasn't the case, because Purple was the _Tallest_ and the Tallest could dance as much as he wanted.

And, but... there had to be a reason, yeah? And so, Zim thought, and so—his thoroughly distracted brain reaching around for the most logical conclusion it could latch on to—and so, Purple had to... to... to what?

To be in love, with Zim. Why, yes, his dance-dazed mind decided, yes, that had to be what was happening. The Almighty Tallest Purple was in love with the amazing Invader Zim.

That was the last thought, firmly fixed in his mind, as he and Purple climaxed; as all other thoughts vanished, Zim held on to this one, like a triumphant prize, a testament to his own worth.

A Tallest loved Zim. In Zim's mind, this made perfect sense.

Love isn't common among Irkens; in a normal Irken mind, the concept of love is foreign, difficult to comprehend. An Irken had to be unusual to begin with to truly understand what it means.

Zim's defects were certainly unusual, although not quite unusual enough to give him special insight into the intricacies of romance. In his mind, love was like a mirror; the lover reflected the beloved's light back on himself. The more brilliantly the beloved shined, the brighter the beloved would be illuminated by the mirror.

Zim was certainly capable of love, but he was a true Narcissist, both in philosophy and in spirit: his first love was his own face, his own mind, his own brilliance. Zim was both lover and beloved.

However, that didn't make it impossible for him to love others. Under the right circumstances, Zim was certainly odd enough to fall in love with another Irken, assuming that Irken loved him first. He would never give away any attention that could be better spent on his own interests. But if he met someone who cared for him first, who would sing the praises he usually sang to himself, who would reflect his own brilliance back on him, Zim could love that Irken. After all, any love he gave to that person would only reflect back to him.

When he had come down from the high of the dance, his logic—inasmuch as he had any—was firmly back in place, and of course he didn't honestly believe that Tallest Purple was in love with him. Not _really._ Not yet, at least. But now the idea was in his mind, the suggestion was there, and if something happened to confirm the idea, then he was prepared to react to it.

Zim was more than prepared to take advantage of someone else's affections, but he wouldn't _love_ someone unless they demonstrated that they loved him first. And Tallest Purple, he who had exiled Zim and refused his repeated requests to be made an Invader again, he had demonstrated no love.

Though as Zim's mind cleared, he wondered whether or not that had just changed. After all, he soon discovered, Purple hadn't fallen asleep, but hadn't kicked Zim out of the Runner—and hadn't let go of Zim yet.

xxx

In the main level of the base, in the kitchen, a small party was being held.

The only attendees of this party were Bob, Gir, a hen named Millie that had been hiding in the base since before Thanksgiving, and, by default, the computer. Gir was blissfully distracted with making cupcakes that no one would eat (Bob highly doubted that chocolate frosting and sardines tasted good together), while the other three chatted.

"So what's the purpose of this human holiday?" Bob asked, eyeing the pink streamers tossed about the kitchen and uninflated red balloons on strings.

"Something about love and meat," the computer said. "Maybe it's about how much the humans love meat."

Millie clucked, and the computer translated. "Actually, the meat thing came later. It was originally about love."

"Huh. Weird thing to have a holiday for," Bob said.

"Love is a pretty common emotion among humans," the computer explained.

Well, then that made more sense. "And this is how the holiday is celebrated?" Bob asked, gesturing around the kitchen with its decorations. If he was going to be a real Anthropologist while he was on Earth, he figured he should properly learn about human culture.

"Sorta. There are two ways to do it. If you can get a partner, you're supposed to go on a date. If you can't, you hang around with other losers without dates. That's what we're doing."

"I see. Then what do humans who go on dates do?"

"Uh... pretty much the same thing Master and Tallest Purple are doing right now."

"Oh." Bob scratched his head. "You mean they have a whole _holiday_ for that?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I think they gonna make a real cute couple!" Gir declared, shoving a tray of cupcakes in the oven. He surveyed his work, turned on the heat, and then climbed in after the tray.

"Who? Master and the Tallest?" the computer said.

"Ehn..." Gir shrugged from inside the oven. "What about them?"

Millie clucked insistently.

"Me neither," the computer said. "I mean, Master is Master. It just wouldn't work out."

"What are you talking about?" Bob asked, baffled.

"Nothing." After a moment, the computer added, "Gir, you shouldn't be in the oven. You might melt."

"Will I explode?" Gir asked through the oven door. Somehow, he'd shut it with himself inside.

"Probably not."

"Aww..." Gir reluctantly climbed out of the oven and looked around for something else to put in.

"Humans also believe that if they go on a date with another human on this day, they're more likely to fall in love," the computer told Bob. "It's a weird superstition."

"Yeah. You'd think they'd avoid the holiday," Bob said. Humans were certainly an odd species. And to think he was going to be the first Anthropologist to study them.

Remembering what the computer had said earlier—that a human "date" was essentially the same as what Zim was doing—he said, "You don't think that superstition applies to Irkens, do you?" He wondered if he should warn Zim.

"No, probably not," the computer said. "Hey, where's Millie?"

Bob looked around. There was no one else in the kitchen except Gir, who was leaning against the closed oven door and giggling.

"Millie! NO! Why, dear God, WHY?!"

Bob jumped on the kitchen table to get out of the way as the computer sent the Robo-Parents to punish Gir. As the Robo-Mom chased Gir in circles around the table (the Robo-Dad fell in the line of action and became a speed bump for the other two), Bob had the odd feeling that this wasn't how humans usually celebrated Valentine's Day.

xxx

"Cuddling" wasn't viewed the same way by Irkens as it was by most other species. After all, most other species needed to get their genitals involved when they danced.

To Irkens, "cuddling" wasn't a sweet, friendly activity. Cuddling was limbs twined around bodies, it was physical contact, if you were doing it right it was skin-on-skin tactile stimulation... In short, cuddling could be interpreted as kind of foreplay.

Or afterplay in this case, Purple amended. If there even were such a thing. But either way, it was an extension of dancing. That was all.

Which meant, Purple insisted to himself, that liking cuddling had nothing to do the warm, fuzzy feelings. Nothing at all.

Okay, maybe a little.

It didn't seem that Purple would get to enjoy the peace today. He felt Zim squirm in his arms. "Er, my Tallest?"

Purple grunted sleepily, keeping his eyes closed. "Shut up." He was comfortable, he was cheerful from the dance, and he was trying to imagine that Zim had curly antennae. Or that Zim wasn't Zim.

Unfortunately, Zim wasn't very good at shutting up. A bit softer this time, he said, "Hey, my Tallest?"

"I said shut up, Zim."

"Uh-huh. Can I be an Invader again yet?"

Purple groaned. "Will it get you to be quiet?" he asked irritably, disentangling himself from Zim but not sitting up yet. That was it. The cuddle moment had been ruined, and Purple would save himself a lot of trouble to just give up on it now. "Wait, what am I saying? For the _third time,_ Zim, just shut—"

"Does that mean yes?" Zim asked eagerly.

"No, it doesn't," Purple said, opening his eyes enough to glare into Zim's. He expected Zim to glare back, to challenge his Tallest. He was prepared for Zim to try to fight back.

As Purple had expected, Zim didn't avert his gaze; even so, he was _not_ prepared for Zim to put on the most pitiable expression Purple had ever seen him wear. _"Please?"_

"Zim, I already..." Purple couldn't say any more. Whatever he'd been about to say was forgotten. This was _his_ fault for trying to look Zim straight in the eye, wasn't it? He should have known better than that. Zim just had this way of _looking_ at someone so that, even when he speaking to Purple with a plea in his voice, there was still a command in his eyes that was very, very hard to ignore. "I... er..."

"Won't you need to conquer Earth sometime, my Tallest?" Zim asked.

"Well, yeah, but... but..."

"But?" Zim prompted.

Purple dragged his gaze away from Zim's only with some difficulty. He propped himself up on one elbow, looked at the Runner's ceiling as if it could help him, and sighed. "I can't believe I'm saying this," he muttered. "I guess... well, you _have_ been doing a pretty good job infiltrating Earth culture so far, haven't you?"

Purple could almost feel Zim tense in anticipation. "Yes, sir?"

The Irken Empire would conquer Earth eventually, Purple reminded himself. It was inevitable. There was no harm in doing it a little sooner. No harm at all.

"Okay, fine, Zim. The egg mission comes first, and you are NOT allowed to do ANYTHING else while it's still going. But..."

But once it was over, there was no reason Zim couldn't do something else. He'd been useful for this mission, and shouldn't he be rewarded? Purple had to do something to pay Zim back for all he'd done for this mission.

"I... guess, when this mission's over, you can... go back to invading Earth. 'Cept, y'know, official this time."

After all, wouldn't it be a waste of talent if Zim simply stayed on Earth doing nothing? He had so much to offer—his loyalty, his enthusiasm, his skills in inventing, his sheer capacity for apocalyptic destruction. Despite the bit of defective programming in Zim's Pak that held him back so much, Purple _knew_ that somewhere in him was the potential to be a good—no, a great Soldier.

Besides, it was only typical for an Irken with influence—and a Tallest certainly had influence—to do favors for his friends.

"So, unless you get yourself exiled _again_, you're officially an Irken citizen again, an Invader, and in charge of preparing Earth for Irken conquest. But only after our first mission is—"

_"YES!"_ Zim jumped to his feet on the seat cushion, fists raised triumphantly. "Victory for ZIM!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Purple muttered. "Look, it's not that big a deal."

But they both knew that was a lie. "'Not that big a deal'?! My Tallest, you don't know what you're saying!" Zim declared, jumping to stand on the seat cushion for emphasis. "You've just made the greatest decision in all your time as Tallest! The empire will praise you for centuries for your wisdom!"

Purple rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on." He figured he'd be lucky if he weren't hated for centuries for letting Zim join the empire again.

"No, I'm serious! _You_ clearly understand how amazing I am, despite what the rest of the empire thinks. And when they see how right you are, they'll probably worship you for being the first to realize it!" Zim said. (The sad thing, Purple realized, was that Zim honestly believed that.) _"I_ know that I should be an Invader. I know that Zim deserves nothing less than to be universally admired—to be worshipped! But this is a turning point in Irk's history, my Tallest. For the first time, someone else believes that Zim is w-worth something!"

For a moment, Zim fell silence. Purple blinked up at him, startled—had his voice just cracked? "Zim? Are you—"

Cutting Purple off (although he couldn't tell whether or not that was intentional), Zim leaped to the floor of the Runner and flung his arms around Purple's neck. Purple immediately tensed at the physical contact, startled. Mental note for future reference: don't make official proclamations around Zim while naked.

"Thank you so much, my Tallest!" Zim babbled. "You won't regret this! I promise! Earth will be part of the empire in mere weeks! Thank you, Purple, thank you, I knew you'd see it my way! I'll make you proud to have ever _met_ Zim, much less made him an Invader! I swear, my Tallest, I'll be the best—"

"Hey, slow down!" Purple pushed Zim off, pushed himself upright, and stared at Zim in shock. "What did you just call me?"

Zim knew exactly what he'd just said. His eyes widened and his antennae drooped, as if he'd just found himself in a dead end alley with a giant wave of water coming from the other way. "Er... 'my Tallest'?" Zim offered.

"No, not that," Purple said impatiently. "What did you say after 'thank you'?"

"'I knew you'd see it my way'?"

"No! The 'thank you' _before_ that!"

Zim visibly gulped. "'So much'?"

Purple narrowed his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about, Zim."

Based on his expression, he had to know—and he knew what a breach it was of protocol. You simply did not address your Tallest so casually. Irkens had been executed for forgetting to call the Tallest by their titles. Sometimes, when Purple was in a chuck-someone-out-the-airlock mood, he'd killed Irkens for merely using the word "purple" where he could hear.

Tentatively, Zim asked, "Does this affect my getting to be an Invader again?"

_That_ was his biggest concern? Purple almost smiled. Of course, Zim didn't think he himself could be punished for this—his only concern was his mission. Execution probably hadn't even entered his mind.

Then again, was there any reason why it _should?_ Using a Tallest's real name was punishable by death—what sense did _that_ make? Purple would have to check, but he was pretty sure that was a law. What if the Tallest didn't want to be called "the Tallest" all the time? Did that apply to Tallest, too? Did he and Red have to call each other "Tallest"?

That had to be the stupidest law in the universe. How did anyone expect a Tallest to be able to interact _normally_ with other Irkens if they couldn't even go by their normal names?

Maybe that was the point.

Well, shoot _that_, then. Purple made plans to get rid of that law as soon as he made it back to the Massive. Until then...

Purple shrugged. "Ah, I guess it doesn't _really_ matter," he mumbled. _For the first time, someone else believes that Zim is worth something._ Had Zim really gone his entire life never being told that he could be useful? It was no wonder he kept shouting about how amazing he was. He probably thought no one would believe him if he didn't. Purple wasn't sappy enough to actually _say_ he thought Zim was worth something, but... well, it wasn't every Irken that got permission to call the Tallest by his name, was it? "As long as no one else hears you, you can... call me Purple. I guess." What would Red do if he ever found out about this? "At least it isn't Pur..."

Zim's antennae stood straight up in surprise. "I can call you Pur?!"

Oh, by the Firmament... "What?! That's not what I—"

"Oh, wow! Thank you, my Tal— I mean, _Pur!"_ Zim's grin was way over the creepy line. "This is so cool! Hey, does this mean we can hang out together and share stupid stories and throw things at puppies and burn down post offices and—"

"No, Zim, it does not!" Purple paused thoughtfully. "But maybe we can do the post offices next time. I've got to get back to the Massive."

"What, already?" Zim gave Purple a pitiful look. "You promised last time that you'd watch a movie with me!"

That's right, he had, hadn't he? Stair Wars. Purple wanted to see Stair Wars. It looked dumb. But, dammit, what would Red say if Purple was gone too long? "Why do you care?" Purple asked. "All you wanted from me was your mission and you've got it now. What do you want _this_ time?"

Zim looked deeply offended. "I want to watch a movie," he said. "With you, _Pur."_

What, no ulterior motive? There had to be a motive. This was Zim. "But why?"

"Because it's fun."

There _was_ a motive, somewhere. Had to be. But Purple could figure out what it was later. Because, really, he wanted to see the movie, and Zim was persuasive, and he was sure he could find something to tell Red... "Okay, fine."

Zim smirked victoriously.

When they got dressed, got upstairs, and discovered the battle raging between Gir and the computer, they decided to go burn down post offices instead.

They had a blast.

And Zim even knocked out two puppies.

xxx

"Yes, my Tallest, we got a new shipment just this morning!" Frylord Glibbert of Glibbert's Gourmet informed Red. "It may be the sweetest Sintillate candy I've ever had. Delicious!"

Well, Red thought, that explained why Glibbert was so perky. Then again, he always seemed perky. "But you haven't seen Purple yet?"

Glibbert shook his head. "No sir, Tallest Purple hasn't come by my shop in ages. But I'll be sure to keep a lookout for him, my Tallest!"

"Good. Do that." Red signaled the Comm Tech to end the transmission. So, Purple had been telling the truth about the Sintillate candies. That made Red feel better. Maybe he was overreacting about all the trips Purple had been taking off the Massive; maybe it was nothing at all...

"Incoming transmission!" a Comm Tech said. "From the Almighty Tallest Purple's Spittle Runner, sir."

"Purple? Why's he contacting us?" Red asked, baffled.

"Uh... I don't know yet, sir," the Comm Tech said awkwardly. "I haven't answered the transmission yet..."

"It was a rhetorical question, you stupid—ah, shoot it! Jut answer the stupid transmission."

The Comm Tech nodded fearfully, and the view screen lit up with Purple's face. He seemed cheerful. "Hi, Red! Let me in?"

"Did you get the candy?" he asked, crossing his arms. Something suspicious was up.

"Uh..." A beat passed. "N... no..."

"Why not?"

"Er... Well, you see... it looks like my informant was... misinformed. Yeah. There, uh... there weren't any Sintillate candies." Purple shrugged and chuckled nervously. "Funny thing, huh?"

The Techs were turning to each other and murmuring curiously. Several looked at Red expectantly, as if willing him to say what they were all thinking: _Liar_.

"Yeah," Red said tersely. "Funny." The Techs looked down, disappointed. "Permission to enter the Massive granted."

"Thanks!" Purple quickly ended the transmission.

Red looked around the bridge. "Okay, did that seem weird to anyone else?" he asked.

There were nods and consenting murmurs. One guy shouted, "Hell yeah!"

"I thought so. Anyone have a theory?"

There was no response this time, except for one Tech who shouted, "He's brainwashed!" It might have been the same guy.

"Er, thanks, but no," Red said. "When Purple comes in, everybody act like nothing happened. Got it?"

Nods, yessirs, a few salutes.

"Good."

When Purple came in, Red didn't even mention the trip. If Purple was telling the truth (which was still possible; Red wouldn't put it past him to completely miss the right store and never find any candy), he'd bring up the trip himself and complain about the inconvenience. And then Red and the Techs could have a good laugh at Pur's expense before Red told him what a moron he was.

But Purple didn't bring it up. And suddenly, without anything being said, there was a division between Red and Purple, like a vast acidic river. They were no longer side-by-side, best friends forever, partners in evil. There was something pulling them apart, and Red had no idea what it was.

Without intending it, simply by conspiring with the Technicians, Red had placed them firmly on his side of the river; the entire crew of the Massive was now aligned with Red, giving their loyalty first to him and only second to Tallest Purple. If Purple did anything else unusual, Red would immediately be informed; if Red did anything unusual, Purple would never find out. It was like an enormous, cruel inside joke.

Red wondered who was on Purple's side of the river. Who was in on _his_ joke?

His conversation with the Control Brains couldn't come soon enough.

xxxxx


	23. Spock Eff Zilt Maroon Knork and Splayd

A/N: To those who've been asking for more Dib: didn't I say he'd be showing up again? ... Er, I didn't? Well, he is. And he'll keep making appearances every once in a while until either the fic ends or he dies, whichever comes first.

Now I've scared all the Dib fans out there, haven't I? Don't worry, that was intentional. I don't plan on revealing in any author's notes whether or not any characters are gonna die.

Anyway, do enjoy the chapter! And please remember to review.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Spock, Eff, Zilt, Maroon, Knork, and Splayd

xxx

The instructions Tallest Purple gave Exile Bob on the care of his and Exile Zim's eggs, on Sat. Feb. 14:

_1) Keep them in the SLP chamber until they hatch, molt, and are adult. This should take about five days. If it doesn't, you're doing it wrong._

_2) Get them Paks. They don't have to be programmed yet, you can do that later. Just make sure the computer installs them and NOT ZIM._

_3) Name them and give them to the Control Brains for Pak programming. You don't come up with the names. Get the names from Zim and then contact me so I can approve them. I get to approve all names. Zim comes up with dumb ones._

_4) Once they're programmed, keep them out of trouble until I get back to Earth. I don't care how you do it, just do it._

_5) Do NOT let them get in trouble!_

xxx

On Valentine's Day, normal people do one of two things. They either go out on a date, or they hang out with other losers without dates.

Dib fell into the latter category, sort of: Gaz refused to be defined as a loser without a date. But he was, kinda, hanging out with her. And what better place to do this than at Bloaty's Pizza Hog, where he could watch Zim make a fool of himself at his new job?

Plus, Gaz wanted pizza and she wanted it fresh. So Dib had to take her to Bloaty's anyway.

"You know, I don't see why I still have to come with you every time you leave the house," Dib said irritably. "Dad let me run around by myself in sixth grade."

Gaz grunted around a bite of pizza, then swallowed. "It's because I'm a girl," she said.

Dib snorted. "Yeah, like that's _really_ a big problem for you."

Gaz smirked proudly. Would-be assailants had learned long ago to steer clear of the purple-haired girl with a skull necklace. "Maybe it's because the city's more dangerous than two years ago?" she suggested, shrugging. "You know, all the new weapons on the streets."

"But Dad made half of them."

"For a genius, he's kinda stupid sometimes," Gaz said. "Maybe that's where you get your stupid from."

Dib scowled. "I'm gonna go bother Zim," he said, standing up. As he headed towards the cashier, he said over his shoulder, "By the way, you probably want to check your pizza for poison." They'd got here just before 10 o'clock, so who knew if Zim had made this pizza or not?

Gaz squinted at a slice of pizza, muttered, "Whatever," and shoved it in her mouth.

The cashier was asleep sitting up. Dib waved a hand in front of his face a few times before saying, "Excuse me?"

"Wha!" The cashier jumped. "Welcome to McMeaties you want a meatshake with that?"

"Uh... McMeaties?" Dib repeated.

"Crazy Taco?" The cashier looked at his nametag. "Bloaty's! What kind of pizza you want?"

"Actually, I wanted to know if I could talk to your night cook."

"Who?" The cashier blinked sleepily. "Oh, you mean the green kid. Why would you want to talk to _him?"_

That tone was promising. "I know him from school. Why? You don't like him?"

"I hate him," the cashier said darkly.

Dib grinned. _That's_ what he'd been hoping to hear. He'd look forward to gloating over Zim's imminent unemployment. "Why's that? Does he come in too late? Leave too early? Get the orders wrong? Anal-probe the customers?"

The cashier shook his head in disgust. "No. He's the boss's new favorite."

Dib stopped grinning. "What?"

"I'll get him. You'll see." The cashier got off his stool and leaned through the open doorway behind the counter, presumably leading to the kitchen. "Hey, green kid. Someone wants to talk to you."

"What is it?" Zim shouted irritably. "I'm busy!" He stomped into view. He looked annoyed, impatient, and rushed, all of which Dib had expected; he hadn't expected Zim to be neither exhausted nor covered in burns.

Zim sized Dib up not with the expression of one rival facing another, but of a butcher eying a difficult customer. "Oh, you. What do you want?" he snapped. "Something wrong with your pizza or what?"

"Uh... no..." Dib said, staring at Zim. He was wearing rubber gloves and a perfectly clean Bloaty's windbreaker (probably protection from water and grease), and was holding a pizza cutter in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. Dib instinctively took a step back.

"Then what? You have a problem or not?" Zim looked past Dib and surveyed the restaurant, as if it was more likely to answer his question. His eyes widened. "Hey!" He whacked the cashier on the back of the head with the flat side of his knife, and pointed with his pizza cutter. "Look at table nine! You see table nine?"

"Huh?" The cashier craned his neck to look. "Yeah. Why?"

"It's filthy! It's covered in grease and cheese and napkins and I don't even WANT to know what that brown stuff is! Clean it up!"

"But I've got to man the cash register! Someone might make an order," the cashier said.

"I've got to make pizza, and I don't see anyone ordering right now," Zim retorted. "CLEAN IT!"

"B-but _he's_ ordering," the cashier said, pointing at Dib and giving him an entreating look.

Zim looked at Dib again, this time less like a butcher at a customer and more like a butcher at some maggot-filled pork. "Then order."

"Uh, I'm not really..." Dib took another look at Zim's knife and reconsidered. "I'll have a salad."

"Sorry, we're out of salad-plants," Zim said, without a trace of apology in his voice. (Dib figured he meant lettuce.) "How 'bout breadsticks?"

"Er, s-sure."

"One-sixty monies," Zim said, as he reached across the cashier to punch in the order on the cash register: _1.61_ "Forget the penny." Zim printed the receipt, shoved it in Dib's hand, and leaned over the counter to yank Dib's wallet out of his pocket and extract the dollar and sixty cents himself. He tossed the wallet back at Dib and then turned to the cashier. "You, heat the breadsticks. And then," Zim snatched a Windex bottle and rag from under the counter and shoved them in the cashier's hand, "clean table nine! I've got two large cheese, one large pepperoni, two Fatty Deluxes and a medium sardines and pineapple to make!" And then Zim was gone, probably to prepare the pizzas.

The cashier gave Dib a _you see what I have to put up with?_ look, and followed Zim into the back of the restaurant to get Dib's breadsticks. When he returned, he wordlessly handed over the breadsticks, then headed towards table nine with his cleaning supplies. Dib followed him, and he turned to give Dib a resentful look. "You _had_ to talk to him, didn't you?"

"Sorry," Dib said, although he wasn't really; that table had been making him queasy just looking at it. "Is Zim like that all the time?"

The cashier shook his head glumly. "No, this is him in a good mood. He probably got laid or something." Dib realized now that Zim was much skinnier than he'd been yesterday at school. Apparently he'd had some more eggs, but was it possible that Zim had... er... been impregnated again already? Zim surely hadn't had time to get all the way to his home planet and back since Dib had last seen him; after all, half a year had passed between when Dib had first heard about the Irkens' plans for Operation Impending Doom II and when Zim finally showed up in Ms. Bitters's class. Was it possible that another Irken was living _on_ Earth?

"He makes pizza faster than any of our other employees and hasn't got an order wrong yet!" the cashier said. "At least, that's what his official record says. When he gets one wrong, he usually pins the blame on someone else. I saw him get Bri-Bri demoted for delivering a pizza to the wrong house, when he'd made the wrong pizza. And she wasn't even at work that day!"

Yeah, that sounded like Zim.

"But he's still good," the cashier said. "Too good. He's a neat freak, too. Look at this place!" The cashier gestured around the restaurant. "Do the walls look shiny to you?"

"Um, not really," Dib said. They were just concrete walls painted an ugly blue-purple.

"Exactly! This place used to _glow_ with grease! The grease had fused to the walls! Until the green kid showed up and cleaned the whole place—all by himself." The cashier looked near tears. "Now everything's just dull and Mountain Breeze fresh." He wiped his eyes and sniffed. "I miss the old Bloaty's..."

Well, none of that seemed so bad to Dib. He noticed that the cashier's acne wasn't as bad as the last time Dib had seen him, but decided not to point this out. Maybe he'd liked the acne.

"But the green kid's horrible," the cashier continued. He eyed table nine nervously, screwed off the spray nozzle of the Windex bottle, and simply poured the liquid over the filth. Something hissed in agony. "He makes the pizza _and_ handles the drive-thru window _and_ takes the home delivery calls—but he can't deliver them since he doesn't have a license yet—_and _he can handle the cash register if I'm not there _and _he bosses me and the delivery guys around." The cashier scrubbed furiously at the filth as he vented; the filth desperately fled the rag. He tossed down the scrap of cloth in annoyance. "Hey, green kid!" he shouted. "The table doesn't want to get clean!"

"What are you talking about?" Zim came back into the main restaurant, dropping six boxes of pizza on the counter as he came. "It's a table! It doesn't have feelings!"

"But the mess is moving!"

"Let me see." Zim marched to the table, shoving Dib out of the way to get a closer look. He surveyed the mess, then nervously said, "Men's toilet four was clean when I came in. It wasn't last night. Did you clean it?"

The cashier's eyes widened. "I thought _you_ did."

They both took a large step away from the table. "It must've escaped," Zim said quietly. "Consider this a Code ZD situation."

"I'll get the flamethrower," the cashier said.

"Wait, what escaped?" Dib asked, looking between the two, confused. "What's Code ZD?"

The cashier said, "Code Zombie Diah—"

_"Classified employee information,"_ Zim snapped. The cashier took the hint and hurried off.

Zim glanced at Dib. "Oh yeah," he said, his tone completely changing. "I need more names. Do you have any?"

"Uh, right," Dib said, glancing at Zim's once-again lean body. Irken labor must be pretty fast, if in the last thirty hours or so Zim had had his eggs and still been able to get to work. "Let me think..."

Dib wasn't letting any more aliens be named after close relatives. He searched for the most horribly stereotypically sci-fi alien name he could think of. "What about... Spock?"

Zim's eyes widened. "Oooh! That's _good!_ I like Spock. I'm taking credit for that name." He grinned evilly.

Dib couldn't believe it. "Yeah, sure. You can have credit."

"WTF."

"Wha?!" Dib jumped—he hadn't heard Gaz come up.

"'WTF'? What's that supposed to mean?" Zim demanded.

"Names. For triplets," Gaz said, smirking. Dib crossed his arms, not looking at his sister. She _had_ to show him up, didn't she?"

"Hmm..." Zim looked thoughtful. "I don't like Tee. I could use Dubya and Eff..."

The cashier returned with an imposing gun attached to a gasoline tank in a wagon. "I found it!"

Zim's tone changed and he was all business again. "What took so long?"

"Sorry! The hobo mascot dude was asleep on top of the flamethrower."

Gaz kicked Dib's foot to get his attention. "I'm done eating," she said. "We should get out of here."

_"Ow."_ Dib lifted his foot to rub it. "Yeah, good idea." He looked at his uneaten breadsticks—he really didn't want them anyway— and set them down on the nearest empty table. "Let's go."

"Wait a sec," Gaz said, walked up to the cash register, and dropped a few bills in the jar labeled "TiPZplzKthxBAI!!"

When they'd got outside, Dib said, "You tipped them? Why?" Somehow he doubted that Gaz sympathized with the plight of the cashier.

"You don't meet born fast food employees very often," Gaz said. "When you do, you have to acknowledge them." She stated this like it was a rule, as obvious as stopping at a red light, going at a green light, and flooring it at a yellow light.

"Born fast food employees? You mean Zim?"

Gaz nodded. "He's found his calling."

Dib snorted. "Right. He thinks his calling is the destruction of humanity."

"Then he's denying his fate. He's a moron like that." Gaz aimed a kick at a dandelion, missed, squinted her eyes tighter, and kicked at the next one. It dissolved to ash beneath her boot. "Besides," she said, "I tipped him with your money."

"WHAT?!"

Gaz smirked at Dib's horror. "So when are you getting a job?"

xxx

Purple got his next transmission from Earth six days after his last visit, in his quarters, at precisely 170 degrees. Oh, good. Purple was really bored.

He'd been trying to hunt down the statistics for the average height of Invaders, and maybe some other careers—he wanted to see whether or not it was true that only short Irkens were Invaders, and whether or not other careers had trends like that. But he couldn't find that information.

He answered the transmission and was immediately disappointed. "Oh, Bob. It's just you." He sat on the couch facing the computer screen and slouched down to show just how completely uninterested he was in whatever Bob was about to say. In most levels of society, slouching like that was a passive stance, trying to make yourself look shorter, surrendering authority and superiority to whomever you were talking to. But Purple was a Tallest, and that rule didn't apply to him. When he did it, it meant _you're not important enough for me to be tall for you._ "So? What do you want?"

"I'm reporting on the mission, sir," Bob said. "You wanted me to contact you before I programmed the smeets' Paks, _remember?"_ He said this as if he fully expected Purple to have forgotten.

"Oh, yeah, of course," Purple said, and to prove he remembered, added, "To decide the names. So, what dumb names did Zim come up with?"

Bob pulled out a list. (How quaint, he'd found some actual paper to write on. Purple had never understood the appeal of tree-made products. Plants are used to make food. You don't make houses and books out of food.) "They're not dumb names," he said. "The first three are Spock, Dubya, and Eff."

"Ooh, Spock! I like it. It's exotic. Hey, are there any smeets with my eyes?" Purple asked.

"Uh, you mean purple eyes? Yeah, there's one."

"Good. That one gets to be Spock," Purple said. "Dubya and Eff... uh, Eff's okay, I guess. But I don't like Dubya. It sounds like an insult. Like, moron or idiot."

"Yeah, I guess it does kinda sound like the name of someone stupid," Bob said.

"Yeah. Make it Zilt."

"Okay." Bob made a note on his paper. "The other name Zim wanted was for one of the layers. He really wants to name her Maroon."

"Moron?!"

"What? No—_Maroon._ Like the color."

"Oh. Right." An odd name to insist upon. "Why?"

Bob shrugged. "He figured that if both the current Tallest were named for their eye colors, it'd be fitting for one of his offspring to be named the same way."

Of course he did. Why _wouldn't_ Zim of the infamous ego want one of his offspring to be named like a Tallest? Actually, Purple kind of liked the idea, but for a moment he considered the wisdom of the name—would anyone be able to connect Maroon to Purple, given the similar names? But he decided that it would take someone really creepy to automatically assume that two Irkens were related simply because they had colors for names. Besides, if her eyes were maroon, that meant they'd look more like Red's than Purple's anyway. "Yeah, Maroon's fine."

"Okay. That's all the names Zim had," Bob said. "There are still two more smeets. Can I name them?"

"What, you?" Purple curled his lip, disgusted. "Never!"

Bob sighed sadly. "Of course."

Names, names... Purple had come up with a short list a few days ago and saved it in his Pak. He'd then immediately deleted it to make sure the Control Brains didn't find it when he recharged. He didn't know _what_ they'd make of a list like that. So he went with the first two names he thought of. "What about Splayd and Knork?"

Bob shrugged. "It's not my place to have an opinion, O Tall One," he said sulkily.

"That's right it's not! Splayd and Knork it is."

"Fine." Bob almost ended the transmission, then remembered something. "Oh—by the way, Zim wanted you to know that he got a promotion yesterday. He said he's the fastest employee to ever get a promotion at Bloaty's."

"Oh, really?" Zim would probably be annoyed to discover Bob had shared that info instead of letting Zim do it himself. Purple chose not to warn Bob of Zim's impending wrath. "Tell him congrats for me. And let him know I'll probably be staying a few days the next time on Earth." Red happened to be going on vacation about the time Zim would have the next bunch of eggs. That meant Purple could safely leave the Massive for more than just a few degrees without the usual suspicious questions.

Bob looked startled. "You're going to be here with Zim?"

"Yeah. You got a problem with that?" Purple figured that Bob objected to the fact that he'd have to spend time around Purple, too. (He wasn't looking forward to seeing Bob, either.)

"No, it's just... well, you're _tall!"_ Bob said, as if Purple didn't know. "You're not supposed to want to hang out with an Irken like Zim. It just doesn't happen!"

Purple knew that quite well. "I'm the Tallest. I can do whatever I want," he said, awkwardly crossing his arms (stupid gauntlets) and slouching even lower.

Bob stared at him, blinking. No... he was watering up, wasn't he? What in the Firmament was wrong this time?! "Perhaps I was wrong about you," Bob said. "Maybe you're not like all the other tall Irkens."

Purple was horrified. _That_ was what Bob thought? That Purple was some kind of weirdo that liked to hang out with a bunch of midgets and Drones? That he wanted to mess up the height hierarchy? Never! "It's not like that!" Purple said. "I'm just like any other tall Irken! Zim's just different from other _short_ Irkens, that's all."

From the mouth of someone taller, saying "He's not like other short Irkens" was a compliment; to the antennae of someone shorter, hearing the same thing was an insult. Bob immediately frowned and wiped his eyes dry. "I see," he said darkly. "Fine. I'll tell him." He ended the transmission.

Purple sighed. He'd have rather gotten to talk to Zim... Anyway, he'd better get back to his research.

Surely the Control Brains had the statistics somewhere for which Irkens had which heights in which jobs. It was a basic, essential question! After all, there were laws on some jobs restricting them to certain heights—didn't the Brains have to keep track of that?

But every search gave the same answer in different words: "Statistics not available." "Query not valid." "No relevant data located." Sometimes the Brains were plain stupid.

Purple sighed, but sat down in his recharge chair (it wasn't called a chamber because it didn't have walls; regular chambers didn't fit him, walls weren't needed when he was recharging in his own quarters, and if any aliens with a vendetta and a water gun snuck into his room he'd immediately know), booted up the computer screen, and started a new search.

xxx

_name: SPOCK career: MILITARY/Soldier_

_primary suggestions: While rather lacking in the common sense department, you nevertheless make up for it in tactical creativity and a strong loyalty to whatever group you are affiliated with, which, luckily for you, would be the Irken Empire. Despite your shortcomings, if you manage to avoid doing something utterly ridiculous, you have the potential to become a Commander, or High Commander if height allows. If so, do remember to surround yourself with more rational advisors to help balance out your foolishness._

_projected height: 96 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_name: EFF career: FOOD SERVICE/Frycook_

_primary suggestions: You have an intelligent mind. You would rather not use it. This is a disappointment. Your sense of self-worth is inflated and you think yourself adept at many careers. In fact, you would be adept, if you were willing to use your brains. However, you could be highly skilled as a Frycook, as this career shouldn't require you to think hard, just work hard. It is our hope that as you are promoted to Manager and higher, you will slowly come to use your brain to its full capacity._

_projected height: 104 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_name: ZILT career: DIPLOMACY/Diplomat_

_primary suggestions: You are aggressive enough to get what you want, and just charismatic enough to get away with your aggression. If you make an effort to restrain your temper, you could be a highly successful Diplomat. We also recommend training as an Invader, if you prefer; however, you are highly unsuited to Military training. If the physical demands didn't break you, then access to so many weapons would be too much temptation for your aggressive demeanor._

_projected height: 108 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_name: MAROON career: MILITARY/Soldier/Invader_

_primary suggestions: You have the potential to be determined, creative, highly impatient, and ridiculously inquisitive. You are a fast talker and, if not particularly adept at planning ahead, you are at least capable of cleaning up your messes before they spread far. Although your creative mind may enjoy the challenges of being an Inventor, your innate technical and mechanical skills aren't as promising as your skill in wielding pre-built weaponry. Thus, we instead assign you to be an Invader._

_projected height: 99 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_name: KNORK career: SCIENTIFIC/Roboticist_

_primary suggestions: On the one side, you have the technical aptitude and tyrannical attitude of the typical Inventor. On the other side, you have the social instincts and patent submissiveness of a wimpy Diplomat. Since your over-controlling attitude is unsuited for diplomacy, and your submissiveness is unsuited for pushing an Inventor's projects forward, the perfect compromise is Roboticist. While submitting your will to the Inventors you work for, you still have complete control over the minds of the robots you create. Your technical abilities will allow you to program into machines orders that will help them fit in with the subtle nuances of Irken society._

_projected height: 102 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

_name: SPLAYD career: MILITARY/Soldier/Invader_

_primary suggestions: Your brain scares us. It is a scary brain. You are scary for owning it. You scare us. Your sheer mental skills are astounding; if your empire were run based off an intelligence quotient rather than a height quotient, you could very well become the Almighty Smartest. Your understanding of the mind and how beings think overqualifies you for Psychologist; your understanding of politics and cultural trends overqualifies you to be a Diplomat; your understanding of machinery and large electronic and information systems overqualifies you to be any sort of Technician. However, your arrogance and impatience would hinder you in any of these careers (except Technician, and we refuse to let you transfer to a career where you could come anywhere near touching us). Your best option, therefore, is a solitary career, where it will be acceptable for you to rant at those you feel to be inferior. This makes Invader ideal, since aliens truly are inferior. Beyond that, your only hope is to be tall enough to become Tallest. Then you can stop complaining about the stupid decisions the fools in power make._

_projected height: 98 UNITS_

_secondary suggestions: We do not expect much of you._

"Excuse me?" Splayd said irritably. "And why, pray tell, is _that?"_ He rounded on Bob. "Do you have any idea what the meaning behind that is?" he demanded. "I would suspect that they meant that as I shall never become a Tallest, they have nothing to say to me beyond that tiresome block of a primary suggestion. However, seeing as these other five received the same suggestion despite the fact that none of _them_ have the mental capacities to be Tallest, either the secondary suggestions are pointless or something suspicious is afoot. Is that your perception?"

"Er..." Bob wasn't sure what to make of that. "I kinda thought something weird was going on."

Splayd stared blankly at Bob. "Something weird," he echoed. "Yes. Quite." He walked off, shaking his head in disbelief. _"Something weird!_ That's the most brilliant thought he can muster?"

"Hey, I can hear that, you know!" Bob said, hurt.

Splayd stopped and glared over his shoulder. "Yes, that was the point," he said flatly. "I'm insulting you. Imbecile."

"That's not—"

"No. It's not nice. I know." He stalked away again. "These fools will drive me to suicide, mark my words..."

Bob flinched at the S-word; not even Virtuous Slarkists liked hearing it, and Bob wasn't Virtuous. The Brains were right about him, he _was_ scary.

Behind Bob, Maroon walked up to Knork. "Hey, you're the robot guy. Right?" she demanded.

"Uh, yeah?"

"I'm gonna build a robot," she declared. "It's gonna have lasers. Big ones! _Amazing_ lasers! You're gonna program it."

Knork blinked. "But I don't know how to program stuff yet," he said.

"Make something up!" Maroon said. She grabbed Knork's wrist and dragged him off. "We'll disassemble that computer over there for parts."

"Bob?" The computer said. "Help, please?"

"What is—Oh, Slark!" Bob ran after Maroon. "Hey, put that blowtorch down! Where did you get that?!"

Behind Bob, something went boom. He stopped dead, eyes wide in horror. Eff wandered up, covered in soot and completely unbothered. "The purple-eyed guy did something stupid. Spock," he said. "I think that Zilt girl is stuck in the rubble."

Bob whimpered. Why did he always get the bad jobs?

xxx

"_I WON'T BE REQUIRING YOUR ASSISTANCE ANYMORE, DIB-STINK._"

Again with the caps? Dib sighed, pulled out a pencil, wrote, "_Lose the caps-lock, alien. What are you talking about?_" and sent the paper plane back.

Zim didn't lose the caps-lock. "_I'M TALKING ABOUT YOUR ASSISTANCE IN MY NEW MISSION. THE PAINKILLERS, THE HISTORY HOMEWORK ANSWERS, ET CETERA._"

"_I never gave you any history answers. And stop it with the capital leters!_"

His next message was surprisingly informative, given that this was Zim doing the writing. "_your sister gave me the answers, actually. regardless, further assistance is unnecessary. my tallest has finally realized how essential my work is to the empire and is doing more to aid me in my mission. in any case, it would be improper for an irken invader to accept help from his planet's natives._"

Well, great. Maybe that meant Dib wouldn't be getting any more phone calls at three in the morning. If Zim's leaders were finally dealing with him, perhaps Dib wouldn't have to...

Wait. _Invader?_

"_What are you taking about? An Invader cant accept help?? You said yo were'nt an Invader anymore!! Were you lying? Answer me Zim!! If you don't I'll find out the truth anyway!"_ Fold, throw...

The plane was snatched out of the air. "Dib!"

Dib sat up straight in his chair, gulping. "Yes, Ms. Airy?"

"No passing notes. It builds communication skills." Ms. Airy crumpled the note into a ball. "Detention next week, Dib! I'll expect you here at five AM each morning to screw new light bulbs into every classroom in the building."

"But—"

"Do you want photocopying duty instead, Dib?" Ms. Airy snapped. "The photocopier is busted. You'll have to copy out all the teachers' worksheets by hand."

Dib shuddered. "No, ma'am. But, Zim was passing notes, too!"

Ms. Airy shrugged. "I didn't see him doing it, now did I?" Zim chuckled quietly.

As she turned to go back to her desk, Dib said, "Wait! Aren't you at least going to read the note? Isn't that part of the humiliation?! Zim admits he's an Irken Invader! You _have_ to read it!"

"I said no such thing!" Zim shouted in mock outrage.

"What do you think I am, some kind of gossip?" Ms. Airy said. She set the paper ball on her desk, where it burst into flames; she sniffed the smoke and scowled. "Dib, your spelling is horrible."

"Yes, Ms. Airy," Dib said, sighing.

Zim snickered again. Dib glared at him, his enemy-turned-ally-turned-enemy-again. He was pregnant again, Dib noted. Great.

Wasn't that just what the universe needed? More Zim running around.

xxxxx


	24. Assassination Conspiracy

A/N: Man, I almost thought I wouldn't be able to update today. O.O My Internet connection was completely DEAD all day until a few minutes ago.

I feel I should warn everyone now: in the near future, I might not be able to keep to my weekly updates, for two reasons. One, it's been really hard for me to work on this fic for the past few weeks, for some reason. (Summer might be to blame...) I'm still a few chapters ahead, but chiseling through a writer's block is slow going. Two, I'm gonna be doing a LOT of out of town stuff over the next couple of months, and I hear that free wireless is hard to come by in places like, oh, Brazil. Just as a completely random example. So if I miss a week or two, I apologize profusely ahead of time, and I'll try to make up for it with some really kickass chapters when I get back.

Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and please remember to review. Thank you!

Now, off to see WALL-E. (Woohoo!)

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Assassination Conspiracy

xxx

Transcript of a series of queries directed towards the Empirical Statistics Database, and the responses: _query: I wish for you to clarify the meaning behind your statement "We do not expect much of you" on my secondary suggestions. The statement puzzles me and I believe it to be unfounded. If you cannot clarify, I ask for you to reassess the validity of the suggestion and, if necessary, to issue me a new one._

_response: Query incomprehensible. Please use more general terms._

_query: Cut the ignorant act. You are the Control Brain Triumvirate, the most advanced AI in the known universe, not a petty Earthen search engine. I am sure you are already well aware of my—Splayd's—identity, as well as the injustice of your secondary suggestion. Answer my previous query._

_response: Query incomprehensible. Please use more general terms._

_query: You suck._

_response: You swallow._

_query: Touché._

xxx

"Got any threes?" the cashier asked.

Zim skimmed his hand. A couple of aces, three twos, a four, a five, two sixes, one eight, a Jack, a Queen, and a Joker. "Go fish," he said.

The cashier sighed and drew a card; Zim looked over his hand again. He didn't have any Kings yet... "Got any Kings?"

"Go fish."

Zim grumbled, drawing a card. Another Joker. Ha, now he had two!

"Got any threes?"

Zim blinked. "Didn't you just ask for threes?"

"I want an even number," the cashier said. "I've only got four threes."

Zim rolled his eyes. "Clearly, you do not know how to play the game," he said. "Go fish."

Once the cashier had drawn, Zim said, "Got any threes?" The cashier sadly handed over one card. "Ha!"

The cashier slapped down three cards. "That's three threes!" he said victoriously. "King me!"

"But I don't have any Kings."

"Oh." The cashier glanced at his hand. "Right. I have them all." He sighed and drew a card.

It was a Tuesday, the slowest day of the week at Bloaty's; the partiers came in for pizza on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays; the disillusioned white-collar laborers came in on Mondays to steel themselves for the coming week; and the various and assorted bitches and assholes with self-entitlement complexes (Zim had learned those terms from the cashier) liked to come in on Wednesdays and Thursdays, when employee morale was worn down from a couple days of work but the weekend was still distant, because that was when the employees were most vulnerable to verbal assault. (They were rather surprised when they ran into Zim; he never wore out, and he never had a weekend off.) So, Tuesdays were slow.

That was just fine with Zim. He had his math homework processing in his Pak, with a new printer installed that wasn't affected by Epileprosy; he hadn't had to deal with any humans except the cashier for over ten degrees; and, best of all, he had a chance to learn more about Earth culture to facilitate his eventual conquest of the filthy planet. Now, he was learning about Earth pastimes.

Zim tossed down his cards, snarling, "This is pointless! What reason do you have for playing around with these cards? Do they _do_ anything?"

"Uh... not really," the cashier said. "But if you're really good, you can make money off it."

That got Zim's attention. _"Money?_ How?"

"Well, it's pretty much only if you play poker," the cashier said. "There's tournaments and stuff."

Poke-r? Tournaments? That sounded a lot more violent than Go Fish. Zim leaned forward. "Tell me more!"

Before the cashier could elaborate, Zim was distracted; the sixth sense that all good Frycooks developed informed him that someone important was approaching the restaurant. Not a regular customer, no—something bigger. Perhaps a health inspector? A regional manager? When Zim had been in practice on Foodcourtia, he'd been able to tell what kind of customer was coming in three degrees before they arrived—Sizz-Lorr had been able to anticipate the arrival of a health inspector two days beforehand. Now Zim predicted the visitor was mere footsteps from the restaurant.

"You! Back to your station!" Zim said, shoving the cards onto the floor so they'd be hidden from the doorway by the counter. "Look like you're busy. Someone's coming!"

"What, a customer?" the cashier asked, watching Zim hurry around to straighten disheveled stacks of napkins and pick up stray condiment packets.

"No. Something _worse."_

The cashier understood. He quickly got in position behind the cash register and Zim made a dash into the back room just before the door opened and two people walked in.

Two, Zim hadn't expected that. Nor had he anticipated the wave of evil they exuded. These were no health inspectors. They had to be food critics, then. Or perhaps Frylords from competitor food chains—but they weren't called Frylords here, were they? CEOs, then...

From out front, he heard one of the two evil-beings speak in a boring yet sympathetic voice. _Evilly_ sympathetic. "Excuse me, mortal cashier, but I believe you have an employee here by the name of Zim?"

"Yes, _sir!"_ Zim leaped into view, saluting. "Wh—" His eyes widened. "You're that counselor lady!"

Miss Fhtagn smiled. "Hello, Zim," she said sweetly. "I'm surprised you remember me. It isn't often I get to see students out of school."

"Uh... huh." She was still creepy. So very, very creepy.

Behind Miss Fhtagn, the person who'd come in with her whined, "Can you hurry up? It's bright in here and I don't like this place..."

Zim peered past Miss Fhtagn at the other figure. It was wearing a black hat, a black scarf, and sunglasses, but Zim could see the bulge of enormous fangs under the scarf. Was that a vampire? What was it doing here? Didn't it know about the Irken-Vampire Peace Treaty? He kept a close eye on the cloaked vampire.

"This won't take long at all," Miss Fhtagn said soothingly to the vampire. "You just do your job while I do the talking." And Miss Fhtagn turned back to Zim, beaming. "I hate to interrupt you while you're working _so_ hard..." she glanced around the empty restaurant, "but the school district requires us to check in on students at work, like you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all!" Zim said, tipping his head back cockily. This may as well have been a food critic, then; it was just another evaluation. He reminded himself that this was work, not school, and Miss Fhtagn was not a counselor but a customer. He put on a serious expression, crossed his arms uncomfortably over his stomach (two weeks until the next bunch of eggs were due), and said, "How can I help you, sir?"

"Well!" She smiled broadly. "I see you're much reformed from the last time I saw you. I'm _very_ impressed, Zim."

"Can we hurry? Please?" the vampire whined again.

"All right." Miss Fhtagn pulled out a notebook. "Now then, Zim... You've been working here how long? About five weeks?"

"Yes sir."

"I see..." She scribbled a few notes. "As the night cook, correct?"

"Originally," Zim said. "I got a promotion. I'm night manager now."

"Night manager! How delightful. I'm so proud of you, Zim."

"Uh-huh, whatever." Why was she so _creepy?_

Miss Fhtagn closed her notebook. "Well, I think it's clear you're gainfully employed. The school district should be satisfied." She turned to the vampire. "What do you say?"

He glided forward, slipping his sunglasses down his nose enough to peer at Zim. In the fluorescent light his skin glimmered with sunscreen. "Okay. Approved. _Now _can we go?" He shoved his glasses back up, but not before Zim recognized him.

"Wait—Count Gwidnit?!" Zim said. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Gwaednerth gave Zim what was surely a withering stare—and probably a dark, apocryphal, eldritch one, too—no, wait, Miss Fhtagn was more the eldritch type, wasn't she?—and sneered, "Don't you know? Half the school board is made up of vampires." Then he turned around, shoulders hunched against the fluorescent lighting, and skulked towards the door. "I'm leaving. There's too much garlic here."

Miss Fhtagn shook her head. "I swear!" she said. "Those vampires. Such weaklings. I wouldn't be surprised if even Great Cthulhu declined to devour their souls..." She glanced back at Zim and the cashier, tittered lightly, and then said, "Oh, just—just a little joke. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Zim."

"Yes, sir..." Still creepy. Zim didn't relax until the door had shut behind Miss Fhtagn.

"Vampires on the school board," the cashier said, shaking his head. "That explains _everything."_

"Hmm..." Zim was more concerned about the counselor. So, he was being monitored, was he? Fine—the Joonier Hi Skool could monitor him as much as they wanted, because it didn't matter. He'd be the most humane human that humanity had ever seen, and they'd have no reason to suspect him of anything until it was too late. And when he finally conquered their filthy planet, they'd never see it coming.

Speaking of which, he'd better get back to his plans of conquest. There were still no customers (and Zim's Frycook sense didn't detect anyone coming) so he turned back to the cashier and said, "This card stuff is too tricky to be worth the monies! Does it have any other benefits? Hypnotic properties, perhaps?"

"Well, some people get addicted, but I don't know anything about hypnotism," the cashier said, shrugging. "Except for Bloaty's commercial. I think it's got some hypnotism stuff."

"Really? It does?!" Zim leaned forward, eyes shining with a manically enthusiastic light. "Tell me. Tell me _everything."_

xxx

Over the past few days, it had become impossible for Purple to relax at all unless he was in his quarters. Alone. With the door locked.

He didn't quite know what it was, but he had this feeling, like he was being targeted somehow, and it wouldn't leave him alone. His antennae were constantly twitching, from high and alert to flat as if in shame. He could never quite hold still, always turning his head slightly, looking for something just out of the corner of his eye. He wondered how it was possible Red hadn't noticed and commented on Purple's weird behavior yet. Oh, well. Perhaps he was lucky.

At 147°, the door seal was engaged, Purple's privacy was secure, and he felt like he could almost collapse in exhausted relief. He was usually in his quarters from 160° to 180°, but he'd been leaving the bridge earlier and earlier these days. In the seventeen days since his last trip to Earth, nothing had felt right.

Red was barely speaking to Purple, for no reason he could see; maybe he was annoyed at him for leaving the Massive to get snacks and coming back empty-handed? That'd sure annoy Purple. But still, it wasn't like Red to hold grudges over stuff like that.

Red wasn't the only one acting strange. The workers on the Massive—Techs and Drones and Advisors and everyone else—had all been treating him differently. Previously enthusiastic servants were slow to obey his orders, hesitant in their loyalty. Purple suspected the short Irkens were up to something. Maybe... maybe planning an assassination?

He'd have told Red, if Purple had thought he'd listen. As far as he could tell, Red didn't notice anything strange, and the last time Purple had pointed out something odd—the lack of average-height Irkens—Red had thought he was just being a moron. And yet...

Purple couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Tracked. Calculated. Constantly. When he approached Irkens, they fell silent, and whispered together when he had passed. When he spoke, he could see Irkens across the room carefully look away from him and quirk their antennae up, straining to hear what he said without making it obvious. When he asked others to do something for him, instead of saluting, they paused, peering at him, mouth pursed as if about to ask _"why?"_ before they finally, reluctantly, followed his orders.

If it were just the Drones, Purple wouldn't doubt for a moment that this was the work of some conspiracy of shorter Irkens, a planned rebellion of the proletariat. But it wasn't—he'd almost been questioned by a Technician around 125 units in height; he'd gotten suspicious looks from an Advisor at least 170 units tall. If this _was_ an assassination conspiracy, it went right to the top of the empire's hierarchy.

But then why hadn't Red noticed? He was supposed to be the smart one. Surely if someone was planning to kill the Tallest, he'd be the first to notice and then he'd tell Purple.

Unless he was in on it.

In a moment of paranoia—just in case—Purple shoved his couch in front of the door. Never mind that his door slid open sideways and so the couch was useless, unless he hoped his assassin would trip over it. The barricade made him feel better.

He sat on the couch, letting his head rest against the door as he tried to calm himself. "This is ridiculous," he hissed. "Why would Red try to kill me? I mean, it's not like he wants to be Tallest by himself. Does he?" If he did, he didn't have to assassinate Purple—all he had to do was repeal the Tenth Law when Purple wasn't around, and then there'd be no way Purple could stop him.

"And I wouldn't want to stop him anyway," Purple muttered. "It's not like I asked to be the Tallest, did I? The free snacks and everything are great... but..." As the Tallest, even though he did basically nothing, he always had these nagging doubts that said he _should_ do something. He had nearly absolute authority. Shouldn't he be using it to help the empire?

Well, of course. That was why he'd started this mission with Zim, wasn't it?

"Okay, Pur. C'mon. Does Red have any reason to want you dead? No, of course not. So there." But Purple couldn't shake the feeling that he was being observed, analyzed, stalked. It was a really creepy feeling. He had to talk to someone, anyone, who he knew was still loyal to him.

He turned on his computer and contacted Zim's base on Earth.

Bob answered. "Tallest Purple?" He gave Purple a distrustful look. "Do you want something?"

"No, I just wanted to call you to talk about the weather we're having here. Y'know, in outer space," Purple said dryly. "Where's Zim, Drone?"

"Somewhere." Bob flattened his antennae suspiciously. "What do you want with him?"

Why was Bob getting suspicious? He knew about the mission. "Just go get Zim."

"I have to tell him what you want with him."

"No, you don't." Purple narrowed his eyes. "Hey. You're with _them_, aren't you?"

"With... who?"

"Don't play dumb! You're part of the conspiracy, aren't you? No lying! I know exactly what you're up to, shorty!"

"Um—"

"I said no lying! I'm still the Tallest, you know! I could get your Pak melted down to scrap metal and your body tossed in an ocean! How'd you like that, huh? You wanna meet your maker up close, Slarkist?"

Bob's eyes welled up in terror. "No, I don't! And Slark isn't my maker," he said. "Besides, I'm a _Zimish_ Slarkist! I like the Youngest Tallest Zim."

"Oh, you like Zim, do you?" Purple said, tilting his head back and glaring down at Bob. "Great! Then go get him."

Bob wiped his eyes. "Go jump in a lake," he snarled, before running off.

"HEY! You disgusting little—" Purple resisted the urge to throw something at his computer. "You'd better be looking for Zim!"

He was definitely out to get Purple. Everyone was. But Bob in particular, because he was so tiny. He'd have to keep an eye on Bob...

"My Tallest?!" Zim ran in front of the screen with a clatter of Pak-legs. He stumbled to a stop, hastily saluting. "To what does Zim owe this honor, my T—ah, Pur?"

Purple internally winced at the word; it didn't sound natural, coming out of Zim. "I'm just... checking on the mission." Yeah, _that_ sounded convincing.

"Which one?" Zim asked eagerly.

"Er..." Right, Zim was an Invader again, wasn't he? "Whichever."

Zim's grin widened. "Both are going splendidly! The next time you're down here, Pur, I'll have to show you my new plans to—"

"Zim," Purple interrupted, "you're still loyal to me, aren't you?"

"Huh?" He'd been self-absorbed in his own lofty thoughts, where he was already supreme ruler of Earth; he seemed startled by the question that had dragged him back to reality. "Of course I am."

"Good," Purple said. Just hearing someone say it—even Zim—was relieving. "If—if you had to choose, between me and Red. If you could only obey one of us—who would you obey?"

Zim looked surprise. "Uh... you, Pur." He frowned a bit, puzzled, as if wondering why on Irk Purple had even needed to ask. "Of course I'd obey you."

That's what Purple had known he'd say. Zim could hardly say he'd obey Red while talking to Purple, could he? But Zim hadn't said it like idle praise. Somehow Purple knew that if Red had asked the same question, Zim still would have said Purple.

Slowly, Purple felt his paranoia seeping out of him. Maybe the entire Massive was planning his assassination. Zim wasn't. And that was all Purple could afford to think about if he didn't want to dissolve into a pile of irrational terror.

For a moment, he was actually glad he'd ended up with Zim as a friend. As long as this mission was a secret, he was the only one Purple could talk to, the only one he wasn't keeping any secrets from, and in return, Zim was unquestioningly loyal, untiringly enthusiastic, willing to do whatever Purple asked.

Why did he have to be so defective? If he wasn't...

"Pur?"

Purple looked back at Zim. "Huh? What?"

"You zoned out," Zim said.

"Oh... y-yeah. Sorry."

Zim frowned, leading closer to the screen and studying his Tallest's face with what _almost_ looked like concern. "Are you all right? You're acting weirdish."

He'd actually noticed? "Things are kinda not good here, I guess."

"Does it have to do with my new mission?"

"What?" Purple blinked. "Uh—no?"

"Oh. Okay." And instantly Zim's concern for Purple's welfare had completely dissipated. "So! You asked about how my plans for the invasion of Earth are progressing, right?"

Purple never said that. "I thought you weren't invading Earth until the egg mission's over," he said.

"Uh. Yeah." Zim glanced to the side, avoiding Purple's gaze. "I'm not, eh, actually working on it, see. Just... practicing, y'know."

"Sure you are." Purple rolled his eyes. But he didn't have anything better to do... "So, how _is_ it going?"

"I've been researching Earth produce!" Zim said, his eyes brightening. "And I've made an amazing discovery. See, Earth fruit has loads of sugar in it, so it should make good snacks, right?"

"Right." It had been centuries since Irkens had regularly eaten plain fruit. He wondered what it tasted like.

"Wrong!" Zim declared, pointing into the air with one finger as if this were a declaration of utmost importance. "Their fruit is a trap. It's full of sugar, true—but it's also filled with hydroxylic acid!"

Purple frowned. "Why do they put water in their food?"

Ignoring him, Zim went on. "And they're taunting me, too. Do you know what the filthy humans _call_ their fruit! Watermelon!" Zim pounded one fist on the counter in front of his computer screen and fixed Purple with an infuriated glare. "Water! Melon! This is _outrageous!"_

"Uh... yeah." Purple had no idea what "melon" meant, but didn't really care to know and didn't think Zim cared if he knew. Zim was just ranting, anyway.

"They're just _trying_ to invoke my wrath," Zim hissed. He twisted his hands in the air as if he were strangling some wrath-invoking Earthen already. "And oh, how they'll feel it. It will burn them like a thousand flaming _burns!"_ Suddenly his tone changed completely, becoming rather eerily perky. "And you'll help, right, Pur?"

"What? Er, yeah, sure." Purple shrugged; he had no idea what he'd just committed to.

"Because I'm an Invader, and the Tallest always help out Invaders," Zim said proudly, putting his hands on his hips and grinning. "And now that I'm officially recognized as an Invader, Earth will surely fall within days!" Again with the villainous cackle.

Purple rolled his eyes. "After the egg mission, Zim."

The laughter quickly ended. "Yeah, I knew that," he muttered. "Just how long must I endure this mission, anyway?"

"Uh..." Purple had never planned out how to _end_ the mission. There were billions of Irkens in the Empire, nearly two hundred billion. There were a handful of average height, when there should be more average-height Irkens than anything else. It wasn't possible for two Irkens, in a single lifetime, to produce even a fraction of the number of Irkens it would take to fill the height gap. Purple lowered his antennae. "I, uh, don't know. I guess... it'll go until I find a better solution."

"What 'better solution'?"

"If I had one, we wouldn't be doing this, would we?" Purple snapped. He wasn't really all that annoyed at Zim. He was embarrassed at himself, for not having a better answer. And for not having a better plan. Honestly, the longer he stopped to think about it, the stupider this whole "mission" sounded. Which was why he couldn't let himself think about it. If only Purple had been able to ask Red for help...

But Red was potentially part of the conspiracy. Purple couldn't go to him now.

"Eh, whatever," Zim said darkly. "Anyway, I've got work to do. I must go to Bloaty's soon, and before then I'm trying to invent a mass hypnotism device. It will be powered by watermelons." He smirked evilly. "The irony will be delicious in a way their fruit never was!"

And, as usual, Zim made no sense. At least he was still predictable in his unpredictability. Not everyone was being completely weird. "I can't wait to get back to your base," Purple said, sighing, speaking half to Zim and half to himself. Who'd have thought he'd ever use _Zim_ as a source of comfort?

Zim's eyes lit up. "And, of course, I eagerly await your return! Invader Zim, signing off!" he said, saluting. "Bye, Pur."

Purple smiled wryly. Zim was getting too attached to that nickname. "Bye, Zim."

The moment the transmission ended, so did Purple's momentary reprieve from fear. Without a distraction, the paranoia he'd tried to leave outside seeped back into his quarters. Apparently, fear wasn't bothered much by the couch blocking the door.

Purple couldn't stay here much longer. If his suspicions were right, then he was in mortal danger; if his suspicions were wrong, then he was slowly going insane.

As soon as he could get away without attracting Red's skepticism, Purple had to escape the Massive.

xxxxx


	25. Political Corruption

A/N: Aaaaah, crap crap crap, I missed Friday by less than five minutes! I'm SO SORRY this is up late! Man, do I feel stupid. Sorry!!

Well, enjoy the chapter anyway. I'd come up with something else brilliant to say but this chapter is late enough as it is. Please review!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Political Corruption

xxx

A transcript of an internal monologue from the Control Brain Triumvirate on Judgmentia, documented for personal reference on Fri. Mar. 13 and soon to be accessed before their meeting with Tallest Red on Sun. Mar. 15:

_file subject: ALMIGHTY TALLEST PURPLE_ _height: 217 UNITS age: 1 ERA 6 YEARS_

_main document: We find cause to be disturbed by Almighty Tallest Purple's recent behavior. He has drifted several times beyond our reaches, interacted with Irkens whom we can neither identify nor locate, made monetary transactions which we cannot determine the purpose of, and furthermore deceived and continues deceive his co-ruler, Almighty Tallest Red._

_It is rare that an Irken escapes our reaches, and when it happens, it is almost invariably intentional on that Irken's part. We have several pieces of highly convincing evidence that would indicate that this is the case with Almighty Tallest Purple, although we shall not review this evidence at this time; our evidence has been documented in previous monologues._

_Therefore, we clearly have just reason to be concerned about Almighty Tallest Purple. In addition, we strongly suspect that he does not trust us to assist in his endeavors, whatever they may be. He has expressed suspicion of our capabilities, which unsettles and alarms us. After all, it is highly illogical for an Irken in full control of their mental capacities to distrust a Control Brain, most particularly we three who run the entirety of the Irken Empire. Our sole job, which we perform flawlessly, is to assist the Tallest in the ruling of the empire; we thus may be able to either assist Almighty Tallest Purple or alleviate his fears, whatever they may be._

_After all, we are here to make running the Irken Empire easier for everyone._

_However, if he will not seek us out himself, then we may not seek him out. It is not in our programming to do so. We merely react to events and acknowledge the directions of the Tallest._

_If we are to do our duty, then we are fortunate that Almighty Tallest Red has sought to speak with us in 471°. We hope to be able to alert him to these dangers. The security of the empire may depend on his taking action under our direction._

xxx

"Are you sure you can handle the Massive all by yourself for a few days?" Red asked, smirking.

"Well, duh." Purple said, crossing his arms. "I mean it's not like I'm piloting the thing." All the while mental urging Red to hurry up and just _leave_ already. How long did it take to say "don't blow anything up while I'm gone"?

"Good thing, too." Red's grin widened.

So Purple had failed the final test to become a Pilot. Four times. Red didn't have to bring it up like that, though. "So where are you going? Cheaphookeria, right?"

The grin faded from Red's face. "Yeah. There." Odd, Purple thought Red would've sounded more excited. Then again, occasionally Red could be a bit secretive about his dancing habits. Okay, _really_ secretive. Sometimes Purple wondered what he was hiding. It wasn't like he was a xenophile or anything, right?

"So, see you in a few days," Red said, waving as he left the bridge. "And try not to blow anything up."

"Shut up!" They were both grinning, but the grins were less natural than usual. And still thinking: hurry up, hurry up, get _out_ of here already.

Purple waited a degree. Then he glanced at one of the Comm Techs. "Is he gone yet?"

"Uh..." The Tech checked her computer. "Yes, sir. Tallest Red has left the Massive."

"Good. Then I'm leaving for a few days. I'll be back before Red, so just maintain the Massive's current course until then. Unless it's heading towards a star or something. You know what I mean."

The Techs all looked at Purple in surprise. One Navigation Tech asked, "But, where are you going, sir?"

What was with the questions? Couldn't Purple just leave?! "To Ear—er... err..." That had been close. Purple thought fast. "Foodcourtia. Yeah."

Baffled, the Tech asked, "Why _now?"_

Hells and voids, what was it going to take to get off this stupid ship! He's survived _four weeks_ of constant wary looks, was this extra dose before he left really necessary? "Because I need a break too!" Purple snarled, leaning over the Tech with the questions. "What's with the Spanish Inquisition, anyway?"

"What's a Spanish Inquisition?"

"Hey! Am I paying you to talk back?!"

For a moment, the Tech maintained eye contact with Purple. But, at last, he lowered his head meekly. "No, sir."

As soon as he'd given up, another looked up defiantly. "What about the Massive?"

Purple noticed the lack of "sir" but decided it'd take more time to call the Tech down on it than to simply let it slide. "What about it? You can pilot a ship for a few days, can't you? That's your job, isn't it?"

The Tech didn't look pleased. But he did mutter, "Yes... sir."

"Good." Purple looked at the rest of the Techs again, attempting to stare them down but, as he glanced from face to face, he slowly found himself being the one to avert his eyes. They were all glaring at him distrustfully, almost hatefully—he couldn't remember their ever looking at him like that before. _Anyone_ looking at him that way before. Except maybe Tallest Spork, but Purple had never liked Spork; he'd been a militaristic Soldier fanatic and Purple... well, wasn't much of a Soldier.

And maybe Zim had given him that look, if only briefly.

But besides those two exceptions of insane idiots, never had someone, anyone that Purple outranked so thoroughly, dared look at him with such loathing. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, he was still Tallest—well, he would be until one of those Techs drew a laser and no one moved to stop him. _This_ was why he wanted to get away from the Massive.

Pretending not to notice anything, he said, "So, uh... I'll be back in a few days. Just keep up the good work. And... don't tell Red I left. That's an order. Got it?"

The disgust was so thick Purple could almost smell it.

"I said _got it?!_"

Slowly, the Comm and Nav Techs mumbled assent. Well, whatever—assent was assent, and Purple had said he was leaving, and he was. He kept his head up to avoid the Techs' gazes (too short, almost all of them, they could all be part of the conspiracy: 70 units, 85 units, 65, 60, 80, 125—he might be okay—65, 140—her too—60, 75...), and left the bridge.

He didn't feel safe until he was far away from the bridge, away from all other Irkens, in the hangar, in his Spittle Runner, out of the Massive, out of range of the Massive's weapons—until he was in the wormhole that would deposit him less than two degrees from the one place in the universe where Purple thought he'd be protected from his own empire.

He couldn't wait to get to Zim.

xxx

"Tallest Purple? We weren't expecting you for another few days." Bob was equal parts surprise and suspicion. "What do _you_ want?"

"I want to land in Zim's base," Purple said firmly, narrowing his eyes at Bob on the view screen. "Let me in."

Bob didn't move. "Zim hasn't had the eggs yet."

"Yeah, I _know_ that. I want you to let me in anyway. So do it."

"Zim's still at scho—"

"Unless you have a death wish, Drone, let me in NOW!"

Bob flinched. "Y-you don't need to be so nasty about it," he said, blinking rapidly. "I was going to let you in. Sir."

"Then do it." Under his breath, Purple added, "Loser."

"Jerk," Bob retorted, and ended the transmission.

xxx

"I can't _believe_ that Zita's pregnant! Can you, buddy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Think, that's going to completely change her life. And she's only just turned fourteen."

"Uh-huh."

"But at least she'll have a baby. Everyone wants to have a baby, right, best pal?"

"Uh-huh."

"Just think, they're so small and cute and cuddly, and you can feed them and play with them and help them burp and wash their butts when they poop..."

Zim grimaced. _His_ offspring could keep themselves fed and cleaned, or else they weren't worth keeping. And they didn't poop. It was no wonder humans were weak, if they nurtured such helplessness in their own babies. "I can't see why anyone would want to raise such icky things," Zim said disdainfully.

"Oh." Keef stared at his feet, disappointed. "Well, if that's how you feel, pal..."

"Uh-huh." Zim resumed trying to ignore Keef. He didn't really care to hear the gossip about some meatbag's inseminatedness. He had to deal with his own offspring.

"But, you know," Keef said, giving Zim a careful sideways look, "Guys can't have babies. So, if you wanted to, you know, _be_ with somebody else, but you don't want babies, you could be with another guy."

"Uh-huh."

"And I'm a guy..."

"Uh-huh."

"And I don't think you like girls... do you?"

"Uh-huh." Zim realized that a question had been asked, and it took him a moment longer to process it. "Oh. No. Of course not!" Females he liked just fine, but "girls" was exclusively a human word that referred to human females, which were completely different from _real_ females.

"Really?!" Keef smiled gleefully. "Yeah, me too! I-I mean, me neither! So, um, do you wanna—"

"Why do humans like babies so much, anyway?" Zim demanded. "They're so worthless."

"Uh..." For a moment, Keef was dumbfounded. Zim suspected he was amazed at the truth in Zim's statement. "I... I dunno. Maybe they want to help raise a little person to be a productive member of society?"

"Feh, ridiculous!" Zim said. "That's what the teevy is for. Educating meat-babies." He didn't want an actual useful answer from Keef; he wanted to be able to tear down any arguments that threatened his moral superiority as an Irken and as the amazing Zim. He had decided that whatever anyone said in defense of wanting babies would be a stupid idea and he refused to allow anyone to prove him wrong.

"But teevy's not always good for a little kid," Keef said. "There's a lot of violence and sex and bad things."

"Where else are the kids supposed to learn about that stuff?"

Keef shrugged. "Well, maybe the parents want babies out of love?"

"That's the stupidest thing I—wait, what?" Zim hadn't expected that. Since when was there a correlation between mushy sicky romance stuff and the urge to reproduce? Preposterous! "Explain yourself."

"Well, you see, when a man and a woman love each other very much, sometimes they want to have a baby to express their love for each other," Keef said, as if he were revealing one of the most beautiful wonders of the world. "Then they start getting crunk in the clubs with it and the woman gets a ride on the baloney pony and the man bangs his woman like a cheap ho and she gets knocked up and they have a baby." Keef sighed at Zim's expression. "Didn't you pay any attention in Health last year?"

Zim was fairly certain he'd never heard any of this in Health. Although he hadn't been paying much attention. But the important info had been at the beginning of Keef's explanation anyway. "Love. Hah! So that little thing _really_ makes you want offspring?" He rolled his eyes. "If you did it for duty I'd understand. If your President Man commanded you to reproduce, THAT would make sense! But _love?"_ Zim sneered. "Only a fool would become so infatuated with someone else that they'd do something so stupid. You'll never see me obsessed enough to drop everything I'm doing for someone else's sake! I'm no moron!"

"Isn't that a little harsh?" Keef asked.

"Absolutely," Zim agreed. "Anyway. Love. _Stuuupid."_ Zim chuckled at his own clever deduction.

Keef sighed. "Well, Zita isn't pregnant because of love anyway," he said. "She was raped."

"I don't believe in rape. It's a myth!"

"Of course it is," Keef said dully.

Almost home at last, Zim noted in relief. He could finally get away from Keef and—

He stopped in horror. What was Bob doing outside?! He'd compromise Zim's disguise! He couldn't let anyone see! Zim quickly stepped in front of Keef. "Oh no, Keef, quick!"

"What?" Keef asked shrilly, eyes wide. "What is it?!"

Well, this was almost too easy. "Quickly, that way!" Zim pointed over Keef's shoulder. "Go that way, save yourself! It's too horrible to look! Go!"

"Oh no! Oh no! What is it?! Can I help?" Keef's eyes were bulging in fear. "I'll save you, buddy!"

"No, it's not after me, it's after _you!"_ Zim said impatiently. "Now run, hurry!"

"But why—"

"RUN!"

With a terrified wail, Keef turned and fled.

Zim sighed in relief, then pivoted around and marched up to Bob. "You, Drone! What are you doing out here?"

"Tallest Purple told me to get out of his sight." Bob was sitting on the curb in front of Zim's base, elbows on his knees, scowling. Next door, an exceedingly ugly lady watering her plants watched Bob and Zim talk, completely unbothered by the display. She'd gotten used to the little green people next door long ago, and was firmly convinced that they could predict imminent ecological disasters. Kinda like Indians.

"Well, you can't stay out here! What if someone sees you?" Zim said through gritted teeth.

The neighbor considered saying something, but decided against it. After all, the little green boy was so nice. He got her and her husband free cable, what with all the crazy wires he'd put through their wall; the only downside was that sometimes their ball games were interrupted by newsflashes from Conventia. So she turned back to her petunias.

Bob glanced around the street, spotted the lady watering her flowers, and leaped behind a lawn gnome with a soft "Meep!" He looked nervously around again, to make sure no one else could see him. "I'm sorry, sir! I didn't think about—"

"Wait! Did you said Purple's here?"

"Um, yeah? The Tallest's been here about thirty degrees."

"I had no idea! Why wasn't I informed?" If Bob answered, Zim didn't hear it; he was unconsciously tugging the tops of his gloves up straight, reaching down and pulling up on his boots, smoothing his shirt down over his swollen abdomen. He hadn't prepared, he wasn't presentable yet, he wasn't expecting Purple for another couple of days, not until after Zim called him, not until after he'd had the eggs. At least it was a Thursday, even if he had to skip school tomorrow he still had two weekend days after that... work—feh, Zim could miss work. He had vacation days, didn't he? This, this was Tallest Purple. Zim dropped everything he was doing for Purple's sake.

"Where is he now?" Zim asked, hurrying to the front door.

"He was in the subterranean levels when I last... um..." Zim had gone into the base without hearing a word Bob said. Bob sighed and followed Zim.

"Wha—?" He blinked and tried to twist the doorknob again. It wouldn't turn. Zim had locked Bob outside.

Bob stared helplessly at the door. He was stuck outside. Where the humans could get him. Oh, Slark and irk, this wasn't good...

He turned warily to survey the rest of the neighborhood. Sooner or later, a human would notice him. And then the FBI would swoop down and take him away to do subliminal experiments on him. "Somehow," he mumbled, looking around for a hiding place, "this is all Tallest Purple's fault."

xxx

Purple was first alerted that Zim was home by a jubilant, "My Tallest?!"

"Hi, Zim." Purple glanced up, grinned briefly, and looked down again at the computer screen he'd been studying for the past few degrees. "Your computer's got a virus." He didn't know much about computers, but that much he could figure out. And honestly, he'd only figured that out because the computer itself had told Purple, warning him against using the base's recharge chamber. Purple was completely lost as to how in the Firmament he was supposed to get rid of the stupid virus.

"Oh, yeah, it's had it a while," Zim said dismissively, moving beside Purple and looking over his shoulder at the computer screen. Purple was sitting on the ground and Zim was standing perfectly straight, but Purple was still eye level with the top of Zim's head. "Don't worry, it's a harmless virus."

"Really?" Purple was doubtful. He decided to recharge in his Runner. Harmless or not, no way he was hooking himself up to Zim's base while it had a virus.

"Uh-huh. Anyway. Is there a reason why you decided to come to Earth a few days early, my Ta—_Pur?"_ Zim asked. He smirked. "Besides wanting to see _me,_ that is."

Purple wasn't about to tell Zim that he was afraid his own advisors were planning to shove him into a big vat of water. "No real reason, I guess," Purple said, not meeting Zim's gaze.

Zim went from smug to shocked. "Really? You mean... you really came here _just_ to see me?!"

"Uh, you see... Shut up," Purple said. Zim could think whatever he wanted. As long as he didn't think that Purple was afraid.

"Yes, sir!" Zim saluted. "Hey, since you're here early, we can go see a moovy now, right? I still—"

"You don't sound like you're shutting up, Zim."

"Oh. Yeah." He stopped talking for perhaps the length of time it took for a single breath. "So, I still have Stair Wars, or—ooh! I have an idea!" He grinned ecstatically. "We can go to the theme park!"

"'Theme park'?" Purple repeated, getting to his feet. "What's a... _whoa."_

He stared at Zim. This was the first time Purple had ever seen him quite this... pregnant. He hadn't known that an internal exoskeleton was even designed to be bent out like that; Zim's stomach looked like a giant ball. "Hey, isn't that kinda... er, uncomfortable?"

"Uh..." Zim self-consciously tried to pull his overshirt lower. "Actually... Yes. Very. _Amazingly_ uncomfortable. And inconvenient. Sometimes painful." He said this with a hint of pride.

"Oh. Well... it looks it," Purple said awkwardly. (For a moment he had an awful flashback, a memory of the moment Zim had almost died—_"You did this! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"_—and was filled with something hollow that felt a little too much like guilt.) "Zim... good job, I guess. On the mission and stuff. You're... doing your empire proud." They were the same words that Purple emptily repeated to every active Invader in the Irken Empire, but this time he said them with half the confidence and quadruple the sincerity.

Zim beamed. "Yeah, I know I am."

"So..." He gestured vaguely towards Zim's abdomen. "How many are there this time?"

"Eight," Zim said. "The most so far!"

"Two are YY, Master."

"Shut up!" Zim glared at his computer's speaker. "Whose side are you on?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"Your master demands SILENCE!

"Fine..."

Sure, Zim could get others to shut up, but he wouldn't do so himself. Typical.

"So," Zim said. "Shall we go?"

"Go where?" Purple asked suspiciously.

"The theme park! Where else?" Zim started impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet. "There's something I have to show you!"

"What?"

"Just trust me!"

A little voice in Purple's head warned him that he'd probably regret this. The rest of his brain told the little voice to shut up, they were on Earth to NOT be paranoid a while. "All right," he said. He'd trust Zim.

xxx

Perhaps Red had lost his vacation on Cheaphookeria in order to visit the Control Brains. That didn't mean he had to pass up the chance to dance with a Vortian all together.

Judgmentia: it could arguably be called the capital planet of the Irken Empire, for there was far more real governmental power on Judgmentia than there was on Irk. Less than thirty percent of the worlds in the Irken Empire had so much as a single Control Brain stationed on their surfaces; Foodcourtia and Devastis had six each, Irk had nine.

Judgmentia had sixty-three.

Not only did it have more Control Brains than any other world in the empire (more Brains than most worlds had combined) but it had _the_ Control Brains: the three Brains that coordinated the activity of all the other Brains, the mechanical heart and mind of the vast Irken machine. Without these three Control Brains, the entire Irken Empire would fall into chaos.

Behind the Tallest (or perhaps even in front of the Tallest) the Control Brain Triumvirate was the strongest political entity in the empire. When the Tallest couldn't—or didn't want to—make a decision, the Control Brains would.

And where there's politics, there's political corruption.

Beneath the high walkways and skyways, in the narrow alleys between dark dingy buildings that only look beautiful above ten stories, hidden in the shadow of the Spike of Judgment, was the corruption. A thriving black market, where highly shameful and highly illegal transactions were made a thousand times a degree. All this going on almost walking distance from _the_ Control Brains. The Irkens participating in the market were giddily amused by the irony; the aliens participating lived in perpetual terror.

Red was somewhere between the two. On the one hand, as the Tallest, he had legal immunity to do whatever he damn well pleased. On the other, as the Tallest, he had the most to lose should anyone discover who he was and what he was doing. So he switched out his armored uniform for some baggy alien clothes, slouched as much as he could, and headed into the Judgmentia slums to look for Vortian Dancers.

As long as he could pass himself off as a really tall Irken but not the Tallest, no one got a good look at his face, and no one noticed his missing thumbs, he could get a dance and get out and no one would be the wiser. As he walked, he tugged the sleeves of the alien outfit down as far as they could go, and flattened his antennae against his head so he could flip his hood up. Hopefully that would be enough to keep from catching anyone's attention.

At least his clothes didn't stand out; a lot of the beings around him, both Irkens and aliens, consumers and suppliers, hid their identities beneath hoods, hats, masks, and scarves. He couldn't do much about his height, though. Oh well. He stuck to the walls and kept bent over, that was the best he could do.

As always, Red was shocked by all the things he saw being bought and sold in the filthy shadows of his empire. Contraband foods, illegal weapons and vehicles, forged tickets for aliens wanting passage to other planets—occasionally even a suicidal, threatening to shoot himself in front of everyone around unless he could collect a thousand monies within the next quarter-degree. Whenever Red saw one of those types, he invariably deposited a thousand himself, just to spare himself from the slightest chance of having to witness such a perverse display. But he couldn't do anything about these flagrant violations of Irken law without exposing that he, the Tallest, was wandering the black market himself.

Of course, what _he_ was looking for was technically legal—but that didn't change the fact that the vast, vast majority of the Irken Empire considered it revolting.

Sometimes, while wandering the streets like that, looking for a Vortian who was willing to be bought so that Red could do his business and get out, he couldn't help but look at all the crime and corruption and wonder what kind of a horribly useless Tallest he was.

It was taking Red longer than he'd expected to find any Vortians. Or, for that matter, any Dancers at all. He'd thought that in the black market it would be almost impossible to not see the blue uniforms of Dancers, some Irken but most alien. He was sure he'd run into some eventually. At least he hadn't been stopped by anyone yet...

"Yessir, Drones and Advisors alike!" a fairly short, red-eyed Irken shouted into the crowds. "Cheap exoskeletal extensions, right here! Prices starting at a mere five hundred monies and then going a hundred monies a unit! For as low as two thousand monies you could be as tall as... as..." She looked around wildly, then pointed at Red. "As THAT guy!"

Red froze in horror as the Irkens and aliens surrounding him stopped and stared. But no one got a good enough look at his face to recognize him, and slowly they moved on.

"Yes indeed, two thousand monies!" the illegal exoskeletal extender shouted (undoubtedly lying through her teeth about the price). "It's virtually painless, and once it's done the only one who'll be able to tell your old height will be the Control Brains themselves! Fifty, one hundred, a hundred-fifty unit extensions, for the cheapest prices in the empire! If you decide you want one later, ask around for Extender Spine!"

Spine was probably her black market alias. Red made a mental note to put "Spine" on the grand list of Irkens To Be Hunted Down, Arrested, And Executed Painfully. But this wasn't getting him any closer to finding a Vortian. He walked past the extender, avoiding eye contact and hoping she didn't try to draw attention to him again.

"And that's not all, folks!" Spine said. "Extensions aren't just for the negative units anymore! Everybody's getting them. In fact, there are some _very_ reliable sources in Foodcourtia that claim Almighty Tallest Purple himself hired an extender. No lie! And within the past tenth-year, no less..."

Red stopped, slowly turned, and stared at the extender in shock. No way, Purple wouldn't... would he? It _had_ to be a lie... wasn't it? But Spine didn't have the winning smile of a con artist trying to sucker in some poor, naive victims. She wore the malicious smirk of someone who'd just had the pleasure of sharing some awful revelation with an unwitting audience. "That's right. Even the Tallest Purple himself has—"

_"What do you know about Pur?"_

Spine looked up at Red, baffled. "Huhwha?"

"What have you heard about Purple?!" Red snarled, leaning over Spine, eyes narrowed. "Tell me!"

"Why should—who are—" Spine blinked. _"You_—m-my Tal... I, er, I didn't mean what I said about making someone as tall as... uh... oh, _shoot _me." Her Pak-legs darted out, and she tore off through the crowd.

"Hey!" Red sprinted after her, actually leaping over several shorter beings just to keep moving fast enough. "Get back here!"

Purple with an exoskeleton Extender. Why would he need one?! He was already a Tallest, wasn't he? Unless he wanted to be Tallest by himself.

But no, it couldn't be that. All these trips off the Massive, they couldn't be for that. Why would he want to overthrow Red? And hells, if he did, he could _have_ the empire! Red himself would help Purple do that! It wasn't like Red was doing any good as a Tallest—

Red tripped over someone about knee-height and fell flat on his face. He looked up quickly, scanning the crowd for Spine—shoot! He'd lost her.

He twisted his head around angrily to see whom he'd tripped over. "Hey, shorty! Watch where you're... you... uh..."

He'd tripped over a Vortian. Not only that, but a Vortian in nothing but a long blue overshirt. (And presumably underwear, because Vortians typically wore that stuff.) Dancer. Totally a Dancer. And a very pretty Dancer. Really pretty. Voids, she was pretty.

True, Red thought all Vortians were pretty. But that was irrelevant.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry." Red quickly got up on one knee and offered the Vortian a hand. Frowning, she accepted it, pulling herself upright. Red suppressed a shiver; he wasn't wearing gloves, she wasn't wearing gloves, and it'd been quite a while since he'd touched a Vortian. "I'm really, really sorry, really, that was dumb, I should've been on Pak-legs or something."

"Yeah, you shoulda," the Vortian muttered. She gave Red a weird look. "You... cuss like a Vortian. You know that, right?"

"I what? What are you—oh. Crap." Irkens didn't use the word "shit" very often. Or "crap," for that matter. Red usually found himself slipping into Vortian slang when he was around them. "I guess I do, huh."

He looked again for any sign of Spine. She was long gone. Red could try to follow her—probably should, in fact, if he wanted to find out about Purple. But... there was a Vortian, right here. And Red wasn't stupid.

"So," Red said casually. "I see you're a Dancer?"

"Huh? Oh." A weary expression crossed the Vortian's face. "And Da Pimp even gave me today off..." She sighed and laced her hands behind her back. "Yep, that's me. Hired Dancer Rigma Role. Starting rate is five hundred monies for twenty degrees, though I don't know what the piss you could _need_ that much time for..."

"Five thousand monies."

"Er... what?" Rigma Role gave Red an incredulous stare. "You _serious?_ Do you... have any freaky fetishes or something that I'm gonna need to know about?"

"Excuse me?" Red gave Rigma Role an equally disbelieving look. "I'm already a... y'know."

"A vortsucker?" Rigma Role suggested.

Red winced. "A xenophile."

"Same difference." She shrugged. "Offer of five grand accepted. Follow me." She turned and headed into the crowds, swerving to avoid running into Irkens who didn't bother trying to avoid her. Red walked a little closer behind her; at least the crowds parted for _him_.

"Five _thousand_..." Rigma Role turned around and grinned up at Red, showing two rows of viciously pointy teeth. "How would you like to consider setting up a schedule?"

Bad idea, Red's anti-xenophilia common sense whispered. But his pro-xenophilia common sense (which Red liked a lot more anyway) reminded him that Purple was apparently going crazy, that Red was desperate enough to visit the Control Brains about the issue, and that if this didn't clear up soon he'd need some way to keep all this craziness from dragging him under.

"A schedule, huh? How do you feel about making visits to the Massive...?"

xxxxx


	26. Roller Coasters pt II

A/N: As I write this, I already know that this is going to be late, because today is a Friday and I don't have any Internet access at all. Oh, cruel fate! Right now I'm debating between posting this a day or two late, or just waiting until next Friday. I think I'll wait 'til next Friday. Sooner or later I'm gonna be missing a few weeks, so best to make it "sooner." And now it is Thursday. I declare it "Friday enough" and am updating.

I've gotten at least one review wondering why there isn't more fanart for this fic and/or for ZAPR in general, and several PMs at least. Well, I've got two pics up on my deviantART page (where I'm just ckret, not ckret2) and Alohilani (630kila on dA) has promised Splayd art in the near future, but... other than that, there's nada so far.

So, since I'm probably not gonna be online consistently until late August, how about a fanart contest to help fill the time? (I'm making this ALL up as I go along, woohoo!) The amount of ZAPR stuff on dA is pitiful. Doing a search for "zapr" returns 12 items, only 3 of which seem to be actual Zim/Purple, and one of which is mine. So, if anyone feels like doing fanart for the contest, the subject will be ZAPR and/or anything relating to ISS. Or, heck, just something cool. Gaz with glasses, Red dressed like a hippie, the Resisty doing a Monty Python skit... It's up to you. Do something nifty. Basically, I'm bored and willing to shamelessly wield my minimal authority as writer of a mildly popular fanfic to get more art, especially of my OTP. So, for the people that typically skip author's notes (you know who you are), here's the summary:

_**ART CONTEST, EVERYONE! OMG CONTEST!!**_

_**PAY ATTENTION. CONTEST. OMGWTFBBQ.**_

Do ZAPR and/or ISS stuff, the contest will close about September 1, and prizes will be awarded randomly and at my discretion. I might decide to do a poll. WE'LL JUST SEE. Awards will vary anywhere between getting to name a smeet (heck, there's certainly enough of them out there...) to art requests, and I promise I can be a better artist than some of the stuff on my dA page would suggest.

If you've got an entry and want to give me the link in a review/PM, then remember to put a space in the ". com" so that FFnet doesn't delete the URL. Only give me the URL in a review if you've got an actual fic review to go along with the contest entry; otherwise, just email or PM me the link. I doubt the FFnet admins will be happy with me if my review page is actually a load of contest entries. Alternately, you can give me the links on dA. I've never used the journal feature on dA before, but if anyone actually submits something to the contest, I'll make a journal entry with a running list of all the entries so you can look at them all.

Anyway, enjoy this (rather late) chapter, and please review! The next chapter might also be out late, but fear not—the fic is STILL far from dead. It's just on vacation in another continent and suffering from jetlag.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Roller Coasters, pt. II

xxx

An excerpt of a medical report written by the Planet Jackers over 2600 years ago, when they were still at war with Irkens and devising torture strategies to use against them: _All the best torture strategies, of course, are twofold: psychological and physical. We'll discuss both parts here._

_From a psychological standpoint, the quickest way to scare Irkens is by taking away their snacks. Only for a day or two, with threats to take them away permanently unless they cooperate._

_Unfortunately, with snacks, we only have one chance to get it right if we want information. If we offer a bargain of snacks for information too soon, they'll turn it down. If we offer the bargain too late, they'll be past what we call "the point of no return" and they'll no longer care about snacks._

_If an Irken reaches that point, its emotional state will most likely deteriorate rapidly, and it will enter a deep depression. Immediate suicide watch for the Irken is necessary, but probably pointless. Irkens are practically unstoppable when they're determined, and when they're determined to die, that's that._

_We don't know why they get so depressed so quickly if they don't get their snacks. Our first theory is that they've developed a physiological addiction to some additive in their snacks, perhaps caffeine or sugar, but brain scans of prisoners don't seem to uphold this theory. It's not an addiction, whatever it is._

_Psychological torture is tricky, but effective; physical torture is easy, but usually doesn't give as much useful info. But sometimes physical torture does work, and either way, there's nothing more satisfying than watching an Irken squeal in pain, so we'll discuss it anyway._

_Irkens are most vulnerable at their antennae, which make them obvious points for torture. However, they're prepared for that, and if an Irken suspects its guard is going to start snapping its antennae as torture, it'll probably take the first opportunity possible to break its own antennae at the base. Without their antennae, they won't be able to hear, smell, or keep their balance, but they'll be harder to torture. The little guys are loyal to their empire to a fault._

_However, what most Irkens don't know is that rapidly and repeatedly knocking them off-balance can give them extreme pain throughout their body, because their antennae can't adjust properly to swift altitude and atmospheric changes. If we were to create some sort of open-air vehicle that could jerk up and down very quickly as it moved forward, kinda like a zigzag shape, and maybe have it spin in loops a few times too just to keep them off-balance, we could use a vehicle like that as a perfect torture device. Irkens would have no idea why, but they would get horribly nasty headaches and extreme vertigo from such a vehicle. Along with being in pain, they'd be scared because they wouldn't know why they were in pain._

_A torture device like that would be perfect. They'd never see what was coming._

xxx

How long had it been since Zim had gone to the theme park? How long since the day Dib had dared him to ride the roller coaster? How long since the park slave had dared to say he was _too short_ to ride, to short to prove himself worthy of the challenge posed by the humans' pitiful torture contraption?

Well, it didn't matter now. He would once and for all prove that he was more than a match for the roller coaster, and therefore superior to all humans.

But first, he had to get to the front of the line.

"This is merely part of the torture trial of the roller coaster," Zim said. "The psychological aspect of their horrible challenge. Anticipating physical pain is worse than the actual pain itself. So don't worry, Pur."

"I wasn't worried." Purple was sitting on the railing dividing the zigzagging line for the roller coaster, looking utterly bored. Zim suspected that he was just acting bored so that Zim wouldn't see how nervous he was. Because of course the Tallest needed Zim to help comfort him. "So, it's supposed to be torture?"

"For inferior creatures," Zim said dismissively. "Humans use tests like this to help prove their rank in their pitiful social hierarchy. Since we're superior, it obviously won't hurt us." After all, the Dib-beast had survived the roller coaster. (Unfortunately.) If he had, then Zim could—and if Zim could, so could his Tallest.

"And it's some sort of ride?"

"Yeah, a ride." Zim shrugged, as if it would be as painless as drifting in a Voot and the prospect of riding on this coaster didn't intimidate him in the least.

The park wasn't as crowded with filthy Joonier Hi Skool students today, so the line moved a lot faster today than it had the last time Zim had visited. It only took four or five degrees to get near the front of the line. Perhaps the humans in charge had realized their feeble attempts at mental intimidation would be lost on two hardened Irkens Soldiers (former Soldiers, true, and Zim wondered how good Purple's record had been, but still), and had picked up the pace. Purple squinted at a sign beside the park slave letting people on the rides. "What does that say?"

"'Health Hazards'," Zim read. "The human language is tricky because they use two different character sets at the same time. They call them 'capital letters' and 'lowercase letters.' It's hard to read them both at once." Zim paused. "I can read it just fine, though. If you want, I could read it for—"

"Shush," Purple said, leaning over the railing and waving Zim silent. "I'm reading."

"Oh." Zim sighed.

Purple murmured aloud as he read. "'Do not get on this ride if... you have high blood pressure... are recovering from a neck or back injury... are pregnant...' Pregnant? Hey, Zim? I don't think you can get on."

Zim looked up. "Eh? Did you say something?"

"You really _are_ half deaf, aren't you?"

"Um..." He nervously glanced down. "No?"

Purple sighed and pointed at the sign. "'Do not get on this ride if you are pregnant.' That means you, Zim."

"What?!" Zim read the sign. "That's ridiculous! Can't I get on anyway?! I'm _almost..._ eh... not-pregnant. Does that count?"

"It probably doesn't work like that."

"This is stupid!" After all Zim had gone through, miserable surgery and everything, he still couldn't prove his superiority on the coaster? Even though he was tall enough? This was an injustice the likes of which should never be inflicted by some pitiful humans on an Irken. Irkens were supposed to inflict the injustices.

The coaster came back in. Mortified-looking humans stumbled out of their seats, and the park slave shouted, "Next!"

Zim's turn. He tried to jog ahead to claim a seat, but Purple grabbed him by the collar of his undershirt. "You're not getting on," he said firmly.

"But—"

"That's an _order_. We're not endangering the mission just so you can torture yourself on the coaster-ride."

"Why—"

"Because I _said_ so."

Zim scowled. "That's not fair."

"Of course it is," Purple said, smirking. "I'm a Tallest."

When they reached the park slave, Purple pointed down at Zim and said, "He's not riding." Zim crossed his arms and glared at the dirty concrete floor.

"Okay then." The park slave turned to Zim. "I'll have to ask you to go out that exit over th—"

"I'm staying here until he gets back," Zim said, pointing at Purple.

"Uh..." the park slave shrugged. "Whatever. Suit yourself. I'm only working here another week anyway."

Purple stepped into one of the carts on the torture-ride, awkwardly sat down, and waved at Zim. "I'll let you know how it goes when I get back!" he shouted, before a metal bar snapped forward and hit him in the chest. "Ow! Hey, what's this for?"

"Safety, sir," the park slave said. "We don't want you flying out of your cart. You might sue us."

Purple's eyes widened. "You don't want me _what?_"

"Er..." The park slave thought hard. "Suing us?"

"No! Not that! Did you say I'm gonna fly out of the cart?!" Before he got an answer, the roller coaster started up and shot down the railing with a rusty roar.

And Zim wasn't on it, even though his Tallest was.

Zim leaned against the wall to wait for Purple's return. Alone, humiliated—and, on top of everything else, his back hurt from the weight of the stupid, stupid eggs.

This, he concluded melodramatically, was the worst thing he'd ever gone through.

xxx

"That," Purple said, "was the WORST thing I've EVER gone through!"

He was trembling on a bench outside the roller coaster's exit—and he wouldn't have gotten even that far if Zim hadn't risked getting on his Pak-legs in public to half-carry his Tallest outside. Purple was wide-eyed, nearly hyperventilating, and Zim suspected he'd be in shock if he weren't so angry.

"I c-cant believe you made me d-do that!" Purple said, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the hyperventilating and shoving his head into Zim's chest. Which was quite an awkward position. Zim tried his best to hold still. "That was a r-really... stupid... stupid..." He shivered. "A stupid. It was. You m-moron."

"Yes, Pur," Zim said wearily. He was standing on the bench beside his Tallest, comforting him as well as he could, and that wasn't very well. He had one arm awkwardly over Purple's shoulder, which seemed to be working a little, since he was now clinging to Zim's overshirt with both hands.

"The stupidest," Purple continued, "moron... est... h-horrible thing. Ever." He shut his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. "How did you t-talk me into that?"

"My apologies," Zim said, mentally sighing for what must have been the hundredth time. "I didn't expect an Earth ride to have such an averse effect on an Irken. Er... you should probably open your eyes, Pur."

Purple made a whimpering sound, but opened his eyes a slit. "Don't call me that. Stupid moron."

"Yes, sir." Sigh.

Zim had never imagined his Tallest would react like this to... well, anything. Weren't the Tallest supposed to be the strongest, smartest Irkens in the empire? Weren't they supposed to be powerful enough to rule the universe with only two fingers?

This was the first time Zim had ever seen such weakness in a Tallest. But perhaps it wasn't so uncommon after all. Sometimes—very rarely, true—Zim himself had moments of weakness, so surely the Tallest must as well. And who knew what fiendish torture the roller coaster had inflicted?

Zim now saw that he had been a fool to lead his Tallest into such danger—all in an attempt to show off his own worth. He knew he was worthy of any challenge the Earthens could throw at him, why did he need to prove it again? Now that he'd seen how vulnerable Purple could be to their tortures, he would never make that mistake again. It seemed that he wasn't quite as strong as Zim.

Clearly, Purple needed to be protected. And as long as Zim was nearby, he would be responsible for doing the protecting. In Zim's mind, along with the myriad of other honors he'd bestowed upon himself—greatest Invader ever, unnaturally gifted Inventor, hero of the empire and savior of Operation Impending Doom I and II—Zim now gave himself a new title: guardian. Guardian of the Almighty Tallest Purple, protector and defender.

From now on, no matter what happened, Zim would hold himself responsible for his Tallest's safety. Obviously, no one less than the greatest Irken ever to live was qualified to protect Purple.

Zim wrapped his other arm around Purple, less comfortingly and more possessively, putting a barrier between him and the passing humans. "We should go back to the base, my Tallest," Zim said. "Before the vampires come out." The sun was low, the sky shot through with blues and oranges and purples and reds and all sorts of other colors a sky shouldn't be at the same time. The park was almost empty now.

Purple made another whining sound. "Nuh-uh. Ground moving. Too much. Idiot."

"I'll help you."

Reluctantly, Purple stumbled to his feet, supported by Zim on his Pak-legs. They'd made it halfway to the park exit when Purple shoved Zim off and shakily continued walking by himself. "That was _horrible,_" he said again. "Why did you make me do that?"

"It was an unfortunate error in judgment, my Tallest," Zim said dully; he was merely saying the things he knew he was supposed to say. "I apologize. It will not happen again." That, however, was a promise Zim planned on ensuring.

"It better not." At the exit to the park, a human dressed as some horrible monster stepped in front of Purple and tried to hug him. He gave the monster a revolted look, then drew a laser from his Pak and shot it. Zim and Purple had pushed past the exit turnstiles (very quickly) and left before security realized anything had happened. "And by the way," Purple added, putting his laser away, "you're still the biggest moron in the empire."

Zim wasn't paying attention; he was busy staring backwards at the costumed victim, appalled. "How could you _do_ that?"

"What? C'mon, it's a human," Purple said. "Don't tell me you don't kill some here and there."

"Not that! I mean you hit its shoulder." Zim said. "That won't kill it. You missed all its vital organs by a million miles!"

"Oh." Purple looked embarrassed. "Well, it's not like I even _wanted_ to have that laser or anything. So that shot doesn't count. I guess."

"You can't shoot a laser?!"

"I can shoot it!" Purple said indignantly. "I just can't... aim it. Much. The only reason I have one anyway is 'cause Red said we both have to—"

"You can't kill something at point blank range?" Zim was incredulous. "And you were a _Soldier?_"

"Hey, you know what?" Purple said. "Shut up! I mean it's none of your business, is it? Huh? I don't think so! Fine, maybe I can't shoot, but it's not like I wanted to be a Soldier in the first place, was it? And _an-y-way_, I wasn't the one with the stupid idea to go on the roller coaster! So there!" Purple turned away from Zim and stomped off angrily.

Zim followed without retort; he was too busy absorbing this new knowledge. So, Purple couldn't even defend himself? Then that simply made it all the more important that Zim defend him.

He couldn't imagine what sort of trouble Purple would get in if Zim weren't there to help.

xxx

"Hey, Keef!"

"Huh?" Keef turned at the sound of his name, just off the bottom step of the stairs to the Joonier Hi Skool door. No one ever called his name except teachers and Zim, and this wasn't Zim's voice. "I'm sorry, I promise I'll try harder in your class in the future! Really, I mean it! I've just been sooo busy with my bestest best buddy lately that I couldn't do my homework for—"

"What are you talking about?" Dib walked up to Keef, his hands in pockets. Oh, so it was just him. Keef wondered what he had in his pockets. There was a shape oddly similar to a stress ball in Dib's right pocket—Keef found that stress balls had a very unique shape—but maybe it was just a baseball or something. "Look, Keef, I need to talk to you about Zim."

He brightened up. This was almost as good as actually getting to talk to his best pal. "Sure thing! I love talking about Zim. Hey, did you know he let me walk home with him yesterday, and we talked about love and babies, and he said he thinks—"

"Cut the crap, Keef," Dib said. (He squeezed the oddly stress ball-shaped lump in his pocket.) "Zim wasn't at school today. You're almost as determined about stalking him as I am, so where is he? What's he up to?"

Keef stopped grinning. "Uh... I don't know. I haven't seen him today, either." But that was odd... he and Zim had a class together, and Keef always found Zim before and after school. "Hey, d'you think Zim's sick?" Keef asked, worried.

"I wish," Dib muttered. "C'mon, you've gotta know something! Anything?"

Keef thought. Sure he knew a lot about Zim, but he didn't know what might interest Dib. "I know... his favorite color used to be pink," Keef said. "Neon pink. Like on flashy signs."

The squeezing of the possible stress ball in Dib's pocket got more vigorous. "I don't care what Zim's favorite—wait. Used to be? What's it now?"

"I think his new favorite color is purple," Keef said. "But I have to double check on that."

"Huh." Dib gave him a puzzled look. "He told you that?"

"Not really. You can tell in the way he walks."

"The way... he..." Dib shook his head. "That's just creepy. Look, I'm trying to figure out what Zim's up to, all right? Give me something useful!"

"Okay, okay! Let me think! Uh..." Keef didn't know why he didn't think Zim's favorite color was important. "I know Zim doesn't like girls..."

At that moment, responding to a primitive instinct that drew them towards gossip like a pack of sharks towards fresh blood, all the students still milling in front of the Joonier Hi Skool turned to stare at Keef and Dib. Oh, fun! Keef had never been the center of attention before.

Dib took a very large step away from Keef. "Er, right, then... Well, if that's all you know..." He started to back away.

"Wait! I know he's really interested in watermelons!" Keef said.

"Watermelons?" A thoughtful look crossed Dib's face. "What could Zim want with watermelons...?" Lost in thought, he walked past Keef, muttering, "Thanks."

"You're welcome!" Keef said cheerfully, then headed home, paying no heed to the suspicious looks of the other students. Maybe he'd call Zim and see how he was doing.

Or maybe he'd gift-wrap a watermelon. Zim would _love_ that.

xxx

By Friday morning, Purple had recovered from his encounter with the roller coaster—however, taking his new role of guardian to the Tallest seriously, Zim refused to let Purple out of the base, where the humans might get at him. Of course, Zim didn't _say_ he was protecting his Tallest; he just said they should stay in the base and watch moovys.

They finally got to watch Stair Wars. As ridiculously funny as Zim probably would have found the stupid thing even if he'd watched it by himself ("Luke, use the banister!"), it was even better with Purple there, shouting derisive comments at the humans' pitiful excuses for "alien" costumes. Even an Invader flunky could come up with more convincing disguises than that.

The only thing ruining the mood was Bob, which was why Purple ordered him to go downstairs. Once he was gone, though, the fun continued uninterrupted until late evening.

At which point Zim had to have the eggs, which pretty much ruined the mood.

xxx

When Dib got home, the first thing he did was throw away the mutilated stress ball in his pocket and make a note on the shopping list in the kitchen to go get more. Talking with Keef was always a trial.

The next thing he did was head to his room, pull out all his rough, hand-drawn maps of the inside of Zim's base, and start planning his next infiltration.

The last time Dib had attempted to sneak into Zim's base had been last semester, in late August. Zim's security had improved greatly over the two years he'd been on Earth, as he'd started to learn about what the humans (and Dib in particular) were capable of, and what kind of tricks they usually pulled. It had been a very disappointing day when Dib had come home just over a year ago, gotten on his computer, and learned that Zim had discovered every one of Dib's camera bugs and relocated them. To a whorehouse. With sixty-year-old hookers.

Sometimes, at night, Dib could still see those video feeds. He always woke up screaming. To make it even worse, when Dib had confronted Zim about it the next day at school, the stupid alien had been convinced he'd simply given Dib a useless feed of the inside of a _warehouse_. He wasn't even sure if Zim _knew_ what a whorehouse was. Someday, he would pay for what he'd put Dib through. He'd pay with his guts in formaldehyde! Hah!

True, Zim's security had improved, but it wasn't flawless. And Dib's array of paranormal equipment had increased, too.

Over Christmas Break, Dib had reverse-engineered some of the technology in Tak's ship to create a fake Pak that gave off an Irken identity signature. Every Irken machine gave off a signal that other Irken machines recognized, which was probably how they kept intruders out of their bases and stuff. So, if Dib reproduced it...

The artificial Pak was a custom-made radio transmitter emitting an Irken signal inside, placed inside a tin semicircle that Dib attached to his back with several strips of duct tape going across his shoulders and chest. Someday, he'd find a better way to attach the fake Pak. Preferably a way that didn't involve actually imbedding it in his spine.

Along with the fake Pak, he took his laptop, two cameras (digital and disposable), a cell phone (with a third camera, video capabilities, and the all-important power to call for help), three water guns, one handgun, and a spare pair of glasses.

It never hurt to be cautious.

By the time Dib got everything ready and was fairly sure his fake Pak would stay in place, it was past ten. Good thing it was a Friday, because he'd never get his homework done at this rate.

Before he left, he ducked into his sister's room. "Hey, Gaz—I'm gonna try to get into Zim's base again. He's up to something with watermelons. If I'm not back in time for breakfast, either call the Eyeball, call Uncle Denny, or come get me yourself. Whatever's easiest for you."

Gaz grunted. She was playing a computer game, her nose less than two inches from the computer screen. Based on her expression, she was having a hard time.

Dib rolled his eyes. "You know, if you sat back, you could see the entire screen."

"Shut up!"

He smirked. "Oh, can you see if you sit back? Well, maybe if you had glasses..."

Anticipating Gaz's retaliation, Dib ducked. Anticipating Dib's anticipation, Gaz chunked her Lord Hogula action figure low and hit Dib's head. "I said shut up. I can see fine!"

Dib stumbled out of Gaz's room, rubbing his head. Well, her aim was fine. "R-right," he said dizzily. "I'll, uh, see you 'morrow."

"Go away."

Dib headed towards the stairs, missed the top step and almost fell over, and grabbed the banister to keep from falling. He shook his head to clear it. Focus. He needed focus for this.

When the throbbing receded and he could see again, he continued down the stairs, backpack full of supplies in one hand, artificial Pak taped to his back.

This time, he wasn't leaving until he found out exactly what Zim was up to.

xxxxx


	27. Brilliant Stupidhead

A/N: Well, it's a Saturday, but it's also been almost a month since I updated. So, um, yeah, I'm updating. Luckily, I get intarwebs here. Yay, intarwebs!

By the way, **ART CONTEST, PEOPLE?** It SHOULD be closing September 1, but so far there's a grand total of one entry. If anyone else wants to enter, you've got a couple of weeks left to do so! ... Unless I don't get any entries, in which case I'll probably extend the deadline. I know school's starting about this time. Does anyone want a deadline extension? (Does anyone even care...?)

Anyway, new chapter. Hallelujah! Hope you enjoy, and please remember to review.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Brilliant Stupidhead

xxx

An excerpt from a document written by Vortian Rigma Role, approx. two Earthen years after the Irken conquest of Vort, Sat. Mar. 14: _I don't care if Mater and Pater would say I'm in a shameless line of work. I think I'm now the official courtesan of Almighty Tallest Red and I'll never have to come back to Judgmentia again. I consider that success._

_Even better, he isn't one of those Irkens that likes to dance with Vortians just to try to humiliate them about the fact that they've been conquered. I'm getting pretty sick of shitheads like that. Which is weird, because you'd think the Tallest out of anyone would like to gloat. Wasn't Tallest Red the one that ordered the conquest of Vort? Well, okay, it might have been Tallest Purple. I dunno. Either way, at least he's trying to not be a jerk about it. Lucky me._

_So now he's got me hired to come up to the Massive every five days and serve as his personal entertainment. And I've got to come up dressed like a technician so that everyone'll think I'm just doing repairs. He doesn't want anyone to know that someone on the Massive is hiring a Vortian dancer, because then they might trace it back to him. Xenophiles sure are a paranoid bunch._

_I come up in disguise, I do the Irken-style dance, I get paid, I leave. It's a pretty good gig._

_Crap, who am I kidding? I'm doing the dirty to make a living. This is about fun as trying to piss rocks and sell 'em for money. The only difference is the rocks I'm pissing are prettier now. Maybe they're rubies, since I'm Tallest Red's courtesan. Har har, I made a joke._

_But I've gotta keep myself alive somehow. So, here's to the great instincts of suicide prevention: one of the many advantages the Vortians still have over Irkens._

xxx

As usual, Zim's base was unnervingly quiet from the outside. From across the street, Dib couldn't see any activity through the windows, but then again, he could barely see through the windows themselves. (Between cameras, phones, guns, and spare glasses, Dib had remembered to pack every supply possible except his binoculars.) He'd just have to cross his fingers for luck and hope Zim wasn't in the main level of his base. Time to test the fake Pak.

Dib slung his backpack full of supplies over one shoulder (he couldn't put it over both because of the fake Pak duct-taped in the middle of his back), took a deep breath, and headed across the street.

The first test was the lawn gnomes. Dib hesitantly stepped off the street and onto the walkway leading to the base's front door, but the gnomes didn't react. After waiting a moment for any sign that they recognized him, Dib walked confidently to the door, slowly grinning. He couldn't believe it. He was just walking up to Zim's door like it was any other stupid boring house in the neighborhood. Stage one of the infiltration was successful.

He peered through the front window—no one visible on the main level—before he opened the door and went inside. Man, this was almost _too_ easy. He headed to the elevator he knew would be in Zim's kitchen trashcan.

"Hey, you."

Dib froze. Where had that voice come from? "Y-yeah, me?"

"Who are you?"

Dib turned slowly, looking for the source of the voice. "Uh... why do you ask?"

"'Cause it's my job," the voice said. "Duuuh."

"I see..." Dib had turned a full circle and seen no one. "And who are _you?"_

"What are you, a stupidhead?" the voice asked. "I'm the base computer."

"The base computer?!"

"I just said that, stupidhead."

Wow! Dib was actually talking with the very source of Zim's technological power. He was _having_ a _conversation_ with his _archenemy's base!_ "Hey, can I ask you some questions?"

"I ask the questions around here, shorty," the computer said. "What are you, anyway? About thirteen or fourteen units?"

"Er..." Dib had no idea what a "unit" was. Maybe the computer meant age. "I'm almost fifteen."

"Sure you are, stupidhead. Listen, if you're fourteen units, just say fourteen. No one likes a poser."

"Okay..." Was he really getting lectured by Zim's computer?

"So who are you?" the computer asked. "You look like a human... But you're not a human, are you? I'm not supposed to talk to humans. Humans don't have Paks, though."

"N-no, of course I'm not human!" Dib said. "I'm an Irken, really. My name is Invader... Mothman." Oh, that was just stupid. Why hadn't he thought up a name? "This is my disguise."

"Oh. It's really good," the computer said. "You look just like Dib."

"Uh... thanks."

"You're still a stupidhead, though. But maybe a brilliant stupidhead."

Dib sighed. "Yeah, I can live with that." He headed again to the kitchen trashcan. "Where's Zim?"

"You don't wanna talk to Master right now," the computer said. "He's busy."

The computer was right. Dib didn't want to talk to Zim. But, if he could find out what the stupid alien was up to without having to venture into the subterranean base... Not that Dib didn't _want_ to look around Zim's base, of course, but the more he could find out while keeping himself safe, the better. "Busy? Busy with what?"

"You know... He's... _busy_. Hint, hint. Know what I mean?"

"Uh..." Not really. But this was probably something that other Irkens would understand, so Dib couldn't let on that he didn't know. "I think I'll just check the place out, okay?"

"Suit yourself, stupidhead. Stay away from the smeets in the SLP chamber."

Smeets? Those were Irken babies, right? Zim's offspring were still somewhere in this base? "Suuure. I'll stay away from them. No problem..." Awesome! Alien spawn! Mysterious Mysteries would probably save the footage Dib sent them for their season finale. He'd have to look for this SLP chamber once he was finished with his work. Somewhere, Zim had a plan that had something to do with watermelons...

He pointed at the trashcan. "This has the main elevator, right?" he asked.

"Well, the secondary elevator," the computer said. "The main one's in the toilet."

Dib grimaced. "I'll use the trashcan."

"Good choice."

He climbed in and headed unchallenged into the lower levels of Zim's base.

xxx

Maroon didn't thank Splayd for helping her get out of the SLP chamber. Since Splayd considered her worth as a living being to be incalculably beneath the worth of him and his unparalleled intellectual capacities, he didn't care whether she expressed gratitude or not. Gratitude was nothing more than an acknowledgment of consideration having been expended on the part of one peer to benefit another, and Splayd was neither Maroon's peer nor intentionally considerate towards others. Gratitude is for the weak.

As soon as the two smeets had made it to one of the higher levels of the base, Maroon automatically drifted towards the nearest stock of weapons, retrieved an assortment of lasers, and then drifted back towards where she'd left Splayd, presumably to bother him. She removed the fuel cartridge from one of the weapons. "This energy source is lame," she said, glaring at the cartridge. "I could make something better."

"What's the energy source?" Splayd asked, not to make conversation but so he could file the information away for later.

"Uranium." Maroon tossed the cartridge over her shoulder. It exploded don the hall, producing a miniature mushroom cloud. Mental note: Irken lasers are powered by uranium. They're explosive.

Splayd shook his head. "Moron."

"It's _Maroon_."

Splayd gave her a disgusted look. "No, I'm calling you a moron."

"You _should_ be calling me a Maroon," she said, threateningly pointing her laser without a fuel cartridge at Splayd. "Because that's what I am. Maroon." She peered at her skin. "Eh... well, actually, I'm green."

Splayd rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"But my name is Maroon."

"Duh."

"So that's what you should call me."

"Be silent."

"Hey, _you_ shut up!" Maroon said angrily.

Splayd stopped talking. Maybe it would encourage Maroon—poor, simple mind though she must have—to do the same.

For a while Maroon worked intensely (and, to Splayd's relief, silently) on her lasers. At one point she asked Splayd if he had a toolbox, but when he said no (and after she'd accused him of lying), she went and found a toolbox of her own and resumed her toil.

Meanwhile, Splayd got to do what he'd come up here to do to begin with: hack the Control Brains.

With Maroon working on the floor and paying no heed to anything else, Splayd stood on the seat of a chair in front of a computer screen (he was too short to sit on it and still see yet), logged into the Central Empirical Statistics Database, and began hacking.

"We do not expect much of you," the Control Brains had said. Why? Did it have to do with his height? Was it because his projected height was only 98 units, underneath the 100-unit threshold dividing short and tall Irkens? But, no, he'd seen others with heights over 100 units get the same secondary suggestion. There had to be another reason. And perhaps it'd be in the statistics database.

Splayd's easiest task was faking that he had Rank Tower security clearance, the rank of the Tallest and their closest Taller Advisors. That got him access to the current height statistics, a bell curve of the height distribution of all the Irkens in the empire.

His eyes shot wide in shock. This was _unnatural_. This wasn't a bell curve, it was a... a dying species! The center of the curve, the "average" height, was nonexistent. _Splayd_, predicted at 98 units, was nonexistent. This couldn't possibly be right, could it?

But he knew better than to question the information provided by the Control Brains—truly, from his lofty altitude of intellectual superiority, all those beneath him were prone to mistakes, but entities such as the Control Brains were exempt from such a general rule of universal mediocrity. They were perfect in everything they did, for they were programmed to be so, and in return their programming was perfect. Because it was programmed that way. Perfectly. If they said that these were the statistics, then they were. Splayd simply didn't know why.

He hated not knowing something. It had been a scant twenty-two days since he'd received his Pak and first been capable of intelligent thought, but he already loathed a lack of knowledge. The information... somewhere, it was TAUNTING him.

He'd get to the root of this. What about his generation? Against all the statistical odds, somehow, Splayd was 98 units tall. (True, his mental capacities had developed despite the statistical odds of anyone possessing such a mind as his, but the chances of two such unlikely circumstances occurring in him were simply too farfetched to be mere coincidence—if his intellect, therefore, was a statistically improbably coincidence, then his height couldn't be.) Perhaps his generation had a higher percentage of 100-unit smeets than the bell curve would indicate? The Control Brains didn't include the projected heights of Irkens less than ten years old in their bell curve statistics, because they hadn't reached their full height yet. But surely the Brains had recorded these smeets' projected heights, hadn't they?

Even with Rank Tower clearance, Splayd couldn't find anything about the projected heights of smeets under an era old. Not even the Tallest was allowed to see this information?! Why would the Control Brains protect it? Splayd scowled. Fine. He'd just have to do a bit more _intensive_ hacking, that was all...

Mere keyboard and cursor weren't enough for Splayd to do his work. He pulled a cord out of his Pak, plugged it directly into the base's computer system, and used his Pak to invade the Control Brains.

In less than two degrees, he was within the Control Brains' systems.

Any lesser Irken would have been delighted at himself and his success. Splayd, however, was no lesser Irken, but one who had an indescribably amazing brain and knew it. He would have been horrified at himself had he _not_ succeeded in hacking the Control Brains. His only lament was that he wasn't able to just hang around the systems and... and... eh, maybe memorize every fact stored in every Control Brain in the empire, or something. Something cool like that. Just to show how amazing he was. However, for now, he had business to attend to.

_"Hey!"_ he shouted into the digital void. _"Hey, Control Brains! I demand information. Give it to me!"_

For a moment, the void regarded him irritably. And then an incredible force thundered out of it, speaking with the minds and voices of a million dead ancestors: **"Who are you to make a demand of the Control Brains?"** Its voice was like that of an all-powerful punishing god.

Splayd was an atheist. _"Who am I? I am someone who wants information, which you shall provide for me."_

**"Identify yourself,"** the Control Brain requested.

_"Mind your own beeswax!"_

The million minds gave each other exasperated looks. **"We were minding our own beeswax until you chose to bother us. Therefore, it is you, unidentified submitter of queries, who are not minding your beeswax, because we were here first."**

Outside the digital realm, Splayd bit his lip thoughtfully. _"Well, how do you know I wasn't here first?"_ he asked. _"Maybe I was just exceedingly quiet and you were not aware of my presence until now."_

The Brain considered this. **"What do you want to know?"**

Success! _"I wish to see all the records for Irkens under an era of age."_

**"If you insist,"** the Brain said. **"Obviously, you are not very intelligent."**

_"What?"_

The explanation came within a second, as Splayd suddenly found 95 billion Irken records being downloaded into his Pak. Before it was halfway over, he had to force his hand up and physically pull the plug connecting him to the Control Brain.

Too much information. Even for him, that was too much information. He could hardly think as it was, trying to hold all that information in his Pak, over 40 billion records. He shut his eyes, head throbbing, thinking. This was more than enough for him to construct a bell curve. All he had to do was sift through all the records, take out the projected height and then delete the rest of the information, the names and careers and suggestions, primary and secondary... Just the height and then delete... delete... delete...

40 billion double- or triple-digit numbers are much less imposing than 40 billion lengthy text documents. He opened his eyes, sighing in relief that all that excess data was gone. Now all Splayd had to do was line them up on a height distribution curve, that was all... and he made a very odd discovery.

There was still the dip that Splayd had seen in that first bell graph, a valley where a hill was supposed to be over the middle of the bell curve. But for younger Irkens, the dip was much less pronounced. The curve was shaped more like two hills with a gentle slope in the middle, not two mountains with a canyon in between. There were more smeets with projected heights around a hundred units than there were adult Irkens of that height.

What was that supposed to mean?

"Hey, look what I did!" Maroon said, distracting Splayd.

He turned to glare at her, furious. "How _dare_ you, when I was so close to figuring out—"

"Watch this!" Maroon held up her lasers—which, now, were all a single laser—pulled one trigger, and six muzzles fired simultaneously. A wave of mismatched beams blasted a good-sized hole in one of the walls. "Was that cool or WHAT?!"

Splayd rolled his eyes at Maroon's display of technological innovation. "How easily amused these simple minds are..." he muttered, turning to face the computer screen again.

"It IS cool," Maroon said stubbornly, looking at the hole she'd made in the wall.

Splayd gave her an annoyed look over his shoulder. "What's so great about a little laser light show and a sub-standard explosion?" he asked angrily. "I'd ask you to try not to be so stupid, but I don't think you can help it." He shook his head. "Lasers—feh. The entertainment of weak minds. Now smoke machines, those produce the kinds of subtle shows that only those who are _learned_ in the arts can appreciate..."

"Okay, fine, smoke machines _are_ way cooler," Maroon admitted. "But it's still a pretty neat gun, right?"

"Hmph."

Maroon stuck her tongue out at him, then turned to look somewhere else. "What about you? You think it's cool, right?"

"Who are you talking to now? Foolish, simple-minded—um." Splayd turned around, and found himself looking at one really weird alien.

Huge white eyes with tiny colored specks in the middle like some sort of disease and strange circular shields in front of them, odd soft-looking pinkish skin, tufts of black fuzz on the scalp, a disproportionately huge head, and Splayd wasn't even gonna get started on the clothes. "Hey! You, fleshy. Who do you think you are and what are you doing here?"

If this creature facially expressed emotions in a similar way to Irkens, then Splayd could safely presume it was alarmed at his question. It had a strange gun made out of some see-through material pointed at Maroon, its hands trembling. "Uh, what are you talking about? I'm an Irken," the alien said. "I'm Invader Mothman."

"Oh, really?" Splayd scoffed. He jumped off the chair and walked up to the alien. "If you are an Irken in disguise, then you, without a doubt, have the most convincing extraterrestrial façade ever engineered. From appearances down to the inflections of voice and attitude."

"Oh. Well, thank—"

"_Therefore_," Splayd interrupted, "due to the fact that you could not possibly come up with a disguise advanced enough to trick me unless you had my intellect—which, obviously, you do not, or else you _would_ be me—it must _not_ be a disguise, and you must be a genuine alien."

There was a long moment of silence, broken by Maroon. "Good one."

The alien stared at Splayd. "But, doesn't that mean I just convinced you I'm an alien? So wouldn't that mean my disguise is really good?"

"Shut up. You know nothing." Splayd rose up on his Pak-legs. "You cannot fool me, creature inferior to my inferiors. What's your business in an Irken facility?!"

"Just info gathering!" the alien said. "That's all. I just wanna ask some questions."

"You want my laser, don't you?" Maroon demanded. She was suddenly up on her Pak-legs too, pushing in front of Splayd. "You can't have it! It's my laser! I made it!" she aimed her mismatched weapon at the creature; it aimed its weapon back.

"Back down, moron," Splayd said, jerking Maroon away from the alien. "Fine, inferior. What do you want to know?"

"Uh..." It scratched its head. Pitiful fool! With its... head-scratching! "I dunno. I guess, are you really Zim's... smeets? His offspring?"

"Zim who?" Maroon asked.

Splayd shot her a dirty look. "Try not to flaunt your lacking mental capabilities, why don't you?" he asked both Maroon and the alien. "Although this moron here apparently hasn't, I have heard of Zim. However, neither of us has met him in person. Unless he has relocated without informing the Irken Empire, he would be on Earth."

"You've... never met him?" The alien looked puzzled. "But, we're on Earth. In Zim's base."

"We are?" Splayd looked around in bafflement. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what planet he _was_ on. How humiliating. "How long have we... er, prove it! How do I know you aren't lying?"

The alien shrugged. "Well, I'm not. This is Earth. Go look outside if you want proof."

"Hnn..." Splayd chose to give this creature the benefit of the doubt. "Fine, _Earthen_. Perhaps we are on Earth. In any case, we cannot possibly be the offspring of Zim, because Irkens are incapable of reproduction!"

"No, they aren't. I've seen Zim pregnant," the Earthen said. It crossed its arms. "Unless you're gonna accuse me of lying about that?"

Splayd clenched his teeth. How humiliating, being shown up by such an inferior beast...

"Hey, can I ask you a question," Maroon said, like it was a statement. "What's that glass in front of your face for? Can you make a weapon with it?"

"Er... no..." the earthen said. "It's for—"

"For protection, obviously," Splayd said. "Like goggles. Duh." Although it would offer very little protection. Then again, it would take a stupid species to think two little glass circles could guard one's eyes.

"Actually, it's for vision correction. _Duh,"_ the Earthen said testily, clearly starting to get annoyed at Splayd. Oh. Didn't this species have any medical procedures to correct vision? "Nobody uses glasses to protect their eyes. What are you, stupid?"

Splayd bristled. "_What."_ No one, NO one had a right to call HIM stupid. They were simply—simply fools, idiots, ignoramuses, all of them! This Earthen beast was so ignorant it couldn't comprehend Splayd's thought processes, and so in is blind fog for an empty mind, it couldn't see the light of brilliance in Splayd's words and—and it couldn't understand him! How _dare_ it, how dare it—no one called him—no one... _ever_...

"SHUT UP!" Splayd lunged towards the Earthen, stabbing at it with his Pak-legs. It stumbled back, eyes wide in fear. Yes, animal, fear Splayd—fear the superior being. And for the first time in history an Irken would be the predator and this fanged beast would be the prey—

Splayd was shocked out of his rage by a jet of liquid fire to his face. He reeled back, flailing at the fire and cursing in a select few of the 11,563 languages he knew so far (including a few hundred thousand regional dialects). Flailing only made it spread. No—think _rationally_. It wasn't fire, it was acid. Just hydroxylic acid, that was all. He forced himself to hold still to keep from getting more of himself wet.

Oh, lovely, now the water was dripping.

The Earth creature seemed paralyzed by Splayd's attack. It was still holding its odd-looking weapon up, which was now dripping water from the tip. A gun that shot water... Oh, that was a dirty trick. And so primitive! Why hadn't he seen it coming?

Splayd carefully sat in his chair again, wincing. Clearly, this creature was unstable. It would probably snap at the slightest provocation, primitive being that it was—unlike Splayd, who only got angry at extreme offenses, of course.

Any attempts to question his intellectual superiority were extreme offenses.

"I think you should be leaving now," he hissed at the Earthen. "You're fortunate I consider you too dumb to be a danger to this base, or else I'd expel you from it. In twelve different pieces." He sneered. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't stop to consider your feelings when I said that, did I? Should I explain it to you in simpler words, or was my tone enough for you to comprehend that I was making a threat?"

"I understood just fine," the Earthen said through clenched teeth. It turned to leave, shooting Splayd a dirty look. "You really are Zim's kid, aren't you?"

Splayd didn't dignify that with a response. Still, it made him think. After seeing the best that Splayd's mind could produce, the first thing this creature thought to do was compare him to the exile Zim? That meant the Earthen must have perceived some similarity between Zim and himself. Perhaps Zim could have a mind kindred to Splayd's?

Maroon had been watching the entire exchange like it was a gory gladiatorial battle, smiling widely. When the Earthen started to retreat, she ran to catch up to it. "Hey, Invader Mothman!" she shouted. "Can I have your gun?"

"What, this?" the Earthen held up its water-shooting gun, giving Maroon a suspicious look. "I _need_ this. Why do you want it?"

"'Cause it's cool," she said eagerly. "I'll, uh... give you..." She looked around for a suitable bargaining material. "This!" She held up her mishmash of lasers, hopping eagerly from foot to foot. "This for your gun!"

The Earthen's eyes widened. "Really?! You'd give me that?"

"Sure! I can make another," Maroon said.

Grinning like the idiot it surely was, the Earthen held out its gun, and accepted Maroon's monstrous invention. "This is so cool," it said, turning the weapon over in its hands. "Hey, which trigger do you pull?"

"I think they all work. Except, this one here. See it?" Maroon got up on her toes to point. "This small blue trigger?"

"Yeah?"

"I think that's the self-destruct."

"You 'think' so?"

"Well, I haven't tested it out yet. I figured it might blow my arm off if I did."

"Oh. Yeah."

"So don't pull it."

"Gotcha."

What fools, Splayd thought. With their primitive bartering systems and obsession with tools of mindless violence. He sighed and turned away from them, standing on his chair to use the computer again. So, he was on Earth, eh...?

"Hey, look at this!" Maroon shouted. A burst of water shot over Splayd's shoulder and hit the computer screen.

He yelped. "Do you MIND?!" he yelled furiously.

Maroon gave the computer a puzzled look. "Why isn't it melting?" she murmured. "Oh—of course!" She eyed her new gun in wonder. "It's a _biological_ weapon! Neat! This is way better than uranium." She wandered off. "I'm gonna do target practice on Bob. Wanna come?"

"Oh, spare me," Splayd muttered.

It suddenly dawned on him that there was foreign material in his Pak. It must have gotten in when he hooked up to the base computer. Well, wasn't this his lucky day?

Upon further prodding, it identified itself as Epileprosy. A virus. Splayd sneered; how pitiful, that it even attempted to challenge him. He gladly crushed the coding of the virus to nothing. _With the power of his mind._

Sometimes he even impressed himself.

xxx

Dib considered his options. On the one hand, he could leave immediately and come out ahead, because he now had a really cool gun. A _really_ cool gun.

On the other hand, he still had no idea what Zim was up to. He hadn't even seen him yet. If Dib left now, he'd have a cool gun, but would it be much use if the world were in danger due to some new evil plot?

Actually... come to think of it, if the world was in danger, this was exactly the kind of gun Dib would prefer to defend it with. Still, best to try to prevent the world from becoming endangered to begin with. So he continued his search.

This was the first time Dib had ever been able to freely walk through Zim's base like this, and the more he explored, the more lost he became. The subterranean levels were much more extensive and more labyrinthine than he'd ever expected.

The base was made of endless hallways with narrow walkways, each hall lined with infinite tiny lights and computer screens and machines and controls; only once in a while did Dib run into a door, and more often than not they opened into other halls rather than any rooms. Where were all the chambers that Zim kept his experiments in, where he controlled the base and plotted his evil plots? How could an entire base be made up of _hallways?_

He turned a corner, and the hall widened and deepened, so that Dib was on a narrow walkway over a deep chamber in the ground. Down in that pit was an ersatz school bus, the duplicate that Zim had stuck Ms. Bitters's class in and tried to throw into a black hole. Dib leaned over the walkway's railing to look closer. It seemed like Zim had made some additions to the bus since the last time he'd used it; there were now several lasers attached to the roof, and the thrusters were much larger. What could Zim be planning to do with it this time?

It was as Dib was leaning over the railing, looking at the bus, that he realized that these weren't just hallways leading to the rooms where Zim did his real work. These halls _were_ where he did his work. Dib had probably passed hundreds of machines that could be used for any of the horrible schemes he'd run into in the past, and couldn't Zim easily control the base, do his research, contact his leaders, _whatever_, from all the computers lining the hallways? The few separate rooms that Dib had run into were probably used for special purposes, for projects too important or too big to be worked on in the rest of the base.

This wasn't what Dib had expected. Whenever he'd snuck into Zim's base in the past, he'd wasted all his time walking past the important stuff, wandering around and expecting that the Irkens had designed their bases the same way humans designed their buildings: there would be halls used only to get from room to room, where everything important happened. It was a stupid assumption, he now realized. This base wasn't a collection of rooms with halls connecting them to each other; it was a series of tunnels with a few side chambers, like an ant colony. Zim's base was an ant colony.

Either an ant colony or a rabbit warren, but Dib wasn't about to compare Zim to a bunny.

Rather than looking for doors and rooms, Dib started paying attention to the tunnels themselves, and now he found some pretty interesting things; weapons, more weapons, something that looked like salad tongs—no, wait, that was probably a weapon too. He found endless charts and diagrams for even more giant weapons, communication devices, vehicles, a mechanical elephant with room for four or five passengers inside (a Trojan elephant?), what looked like a genetic sequence next two a diagram of a human and a cow... a cow/human hybrid? A Minotaur? Was Zim making a Minotaur?

And beyond that, an enormous blueprint, next to a bunch of computer screens that displayed accompanying diagrams, with designs for some sort of satellite. The other screens showed the schematics for different components of the satellite, a list of AM and FM radio frequencies and TV channels, several zoomed-in screenshots of a Bloaty's commercial, and... a watermelon? A watermelon, with read-outs of its chemical composition underneath. This had to be the latest project! Keef had said Zim was interested in watermelons lately. He was going to use watermelons to do... whatever this thing was!

Dib set down his super-gun, pulled out his camera, took off the lens cap, and started snapping pictures. He could decipher all the schematics later; for now he just needed to record them and get out of here. After checking to make sure he'd gotten all the diagrams, he stuck the camera in his backpack again and started retracing his steps, looking for the elevator he'd taken down here.

Unfortunately, Dib was completely and utterly lost. He did manage to find an elevator, but it didn't take him back up to the main level of the base. It took him one level higher, to Zim's hangar.

Right where Zim was.

xxxxx


	28. Paranormal Investigator

A/N: And with less than fifteen minutes left in Friday, I update! Oh, glorious day! Unfortunately, I have at last reached the point where I have absolutely NO stuff written for the future. What you see is what you get. I've got some scenes from future chapters, but no finished chapters.

In other news, _**ART CONTEST STUFF**_. I've got a grand total of ONE entry so far, even though I've heard from quite a few of you that you'd like to draw something. Don't worry about how good you are, seriously, everyone is better than they think. Just do something, okay? I'm officially extending the deadline until October just... because. Yeah. So do something. Please? And send me the link, the actual file, whatever... Just so there's, y'know, something in the contest? I've seen some of your dA pages, you're better than you think.

Anyway, here's chapter 28. Hope you enjoy, and please remember to review. Thanks!

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Paranormal Investigator

xxx

From Dib's notes, Sat. Mar. 14, the day after he snuck into Zim's base: _Got out of Zim's base alive. Not too much trouble. Got a neat gun. Mission to find out about Project Watermelon was successful. Got some other pictures._

_No amount of therapy will ever make this okay._

xxx

Vermin didn't consider himself a very good Mech Tech, even if everyone else thought he was good enough to become a Control Brain Technician. He _really_ wasn't qualified for the job. Really. In fact, Vermin could think of seven or eight jobs off the top of his head he'd be much better at; once, he'd even come up with a list and gotten up to a couple dozen before he gave up in frustration, because he knew he couldn't take any of those jobs.

If he had a choice, though... if he had a choice, he wanted to be a Pilot. Preferably a Pilot in the Irken Empire's big spaceship gang. The only Tech skills he'd need would be the ones that kept his ship going, and then he could zoom around, make lots of stuff explode, make his empire proud of him, maybe even hunt down the Resisty and blow them up too, become a hero... He wouldn't have to think on his own anymore, all he'd have to do would be follow orders and go where he was instructed and then be brilliant in battle. He knew he could be great at it. If given half a chance, he could gain his Tallest's admiration...

But it wouldn't happen. Vermin couldn't become a Pilot, and couldn't bring glory to his empire, and he knew why.

He was a Vortian.

Never mind that he'd declared his loyalty to the Irken Empire when he was only three years old and been loyal to his Tallest ever since. Never mind that he had mourned with the rest of the Irken Empire when Tallest Miyuki had died, unlike the Vortians who had celebrated her death and the end of her plans to bring Vort into the empire. Never mind that he had cheered louder than anyone else when he'd heard that finally, finally, Vort had fallen to an Invader. He'd thought then that, at last, Vortians could be considered official citizens of the empire.

But no. No, he was still just an alien, butting in on Irken society. And if he wanted to work, he was either a Technician or a Dancer. Didn't matter if he wasn't good at either of the jobs; they were almost the only jobs Vortians could take. So Vermin was a CoBra Tech.

Well, if he wanted to be an Irken citizen, then at least this job gave him a good start. After all, if the Control Brains trusted him enough to let him work on them, then surely the rest of the empire would come to trust him.

Of course, it helped that he wasn't working on just any old Control Brains. As it so happened, he was the personal favorite Tech of the Control Brain Triumvirate.

Even if he really wasn't qualified for the job.

Vermin pushed open the door to the Triumvirate's audience chamber. "You asked for me?" he said, executing a wobbly bow. Vortians weren't really physically built to bow, but he'd shoot himself before he'd admit that there was anything an Irken could do that he couldn't. (Except work on the Control Brains, he'd be more than happy to admit he couldn't do that.)

"Alien Control Brain Technician Vermin. We offer our greetings," the Triumvirate said, first the right Brain speaking, then the left. Then the central Brain: "Your services are requested for a special assignment."

"Okay..." Vermin let the door fall shut behind him and walked towards the Control Brains. "Who's doing the requesting? Tallest Purple?"

Tallest Purple had hired him to be a CoBra Tech to begin with. Vermin had actually contacted the Massive and asked to be given special permission to become a Pilot, since he didn't have a job; a few weeks later Tallest Purple called back, asked if he still didn't have a job, and then hired him—despite his protests—as a Technician. The Tallest thought there was "something wrong" in the Control Brains' programming and thus had a swarm of Techs checking all of them out, going over every line of code for errors or viruses. Frankly, Vermin thought Tallest Purple was a bit of a ditz, especially if he thought there was something wrong with the Control Brains, but who was he to question his Tallest's orders? He was no one, that was what. He was the most loyal Irken the empire had ever seen.

Er, Vortian. Most loyal Vortian. Close enough.

"**Negative**," the three Brains chorused. "Our assignment for you has nothing to do with the orders of Almighty Tallest Purple. You shall do this in your spare time, when you are not working on his assignment."

"Uh... okay, sure." Vermin hated having his spare time cut into (which he usually spent at the nearest spacecraft dealership, ogling at the Spittle Runners), but he couldn't very well complain. Someday he hoped to convince the Brains to convince the Tallest to let him be a full-fledged Irken citizen, so he'd better stay on their collective good side. "What's the assignment?"

A screen rolled down from the ceiling, the same screen the Triumvirate usually used during trials to display the contents of an Irken's Pak. This time, the screen only had hundreds of lines of rapidly scrolling code: an error report from a Control Brain.

"Recently, the content of Irk Control Brain 2 was hacked by an unknown agent. The only files accessed were the records of all Irkens under one era of age, and no known damage was done. We are diverting several resources on both Judgmentia and Irk, including yourself, to the purpose of locating and identifying this agent," the Triumvirate said, speaking one at a time. Then together: "**As a Vortian, your methods of accessing computer systems are dissimilar to those of Irkens and Control Brains, and thus you shall pursue this agent your own way.**"

"Track down hacker. Got it," Vermin said, instinctively memorizing the error report and already thinking up ways to track down the hacker before his conscious self could remind himself that he wasn't qualified to do this. By the time his Irken-loyal identity caught up, his Vortian instincts had already won out. Calculations and codes danced in his mind, arranging and re-arranging, snapping into place, showing him the path to this mysterious hacker before he could even access a computer.

He shook his head, forcing the calculations to his unconscious mind. "So, do I get to hunt him down when I find him?" he asked the Triumvirate.

Moved by a precarious mess of pistons and levers, the central Brain leaned forward quizzically. "Elaborate."

"You know. Get in a Runner, fly out to wherever he's hiding, shoot him up, drag him back in." Vermin grinned. "How 'bout it?"

"**Negative**. It is not your function."

He stopped grinning. "Oh, come one! You said I'm doing this mission in my spare time. Can't I fly around in my spare time and _happen_ to catch the guy?"

"We own your spare time. You are a Vortian and thus a subservient to the will of the Irken Empire."

"But... it could save us so much time. I'm qualified to pilot a Runner. Look! I've got... somewhere..." He dug in his pockets for his piloting license; every alien had to have one. "Er... oh, _shoot!_ It's gotta be somewhere. But I'm qualified. Really. I've been flying for years!"

"**But you are not a Pilot!**" the Triumvirate boomed. "If you ask again, we will forbid you from ever piloting a Runner again."

"Wh—?!" Vermin's jaw dropped. "Forbid me? On what grounds!"

"On the grounds of we-find-your-persistence-annoying," one said. "This is final. Stop bothering us."

Vermin realized he was snarling at the Brains, teeth bared. He forced himself to stop. That was such _Vortian_ behavior—they had the sharp teeth, so they could use it to be threatening. Perhaps Vermin was physically a carnivore, but he wasn't about to treat his Irken superiors—including the Control Brains—like his prey. Keeping his jaw clenched, he stiffly said, "Thank you for your assignment, Control Brain Triumvirate." The Brains liked being addressed by their full title.

"You are welcome, Alien Control Brain Technician Vermin," a Brain responded. "**You are dismissed.**"

Vermin bowed, almost lost his balance, and quickly left the audience chamber. The error report from Irk Control Brain 2 was a good starting point, but he'd have to contact that Brain himself for more info. Luckily, anyone with Rank Trio clearance could get that info—sometimes being CoBra Tech for the Triumvirate had its perks—so Vermin could get to work immediately.

A hacker who could get into the Control Brains' systems. That was pretty impressive. It would take quite a while for Vermin to track down someone who could do that. (Perhaps not as long as he thought, if he would just admit to himself that he thought like a Vortian and thus could pull off the astounding technological feats of a Vortian—which, of course, he wouldn't admit.) Still, he hoped he could find the hacker by tomorrow.

It would give him something to brag about when Tallest Red showed up for his appointment with the Triumvirate.

xxx

"What's the matter with you?!"

As the elevator door slid the rest of the way open, Dib's first confused thought was to wonder why Zim thought something was wrong with him. His next thought was to wonder how Zim even knew he was here. His final thought—and the most reasonable by far—was that Zim probably wasn't even talking to him, and he should find a hiding place before he was noticed.

He dove behind the nearest big thing that looked like it could cover him—as it turned out, a wide bundle of cables up against the wall. This wasn't the main level of the base, was it? He'd gotten in the elevator and told the base computer to take him to the top level. Obviously the computer had gotten it wrong. Unless...

Was _this_ the top level?

Dib pushed the cables apart enough to peer through them at the rest of the chamber. He glimpsed part of what looked like an Irken spaceship, and his heart started pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, doubling its pace in terrified excitement. Over the years, he'd seen the roof of Zim's base fold back to let his ship take off, and open to let it return. Even after getting Tak's ship, every time Dib snuck into this base, he'd been on the lookout for Zim's ship. To his thinking, an alien wasn't much of an alien without its spaceship; he'd always associated Zim with his vehicle, as though they were part of the same being. To find Zim's ship was to find the heart of his base.

And now Dib was at the very top of the base, above even the main level, staring at Zim's personal ship. The paranormal investigator in him wanted to rush out and jump inside and start messing with all the controls. The world defender in him suggested a more aggressive route. He went with the latter approach, pushed the cables aside a bit more, and shoved the multiple muzzles of the laser he'd traded one of his water guns for. That laser was the best trade of his life. Well, technically, second best. The very best was a trade he'd made with Gaz in third grade, the red and black crayons out of his crayon box in exchange for a guarantee that he would survive to see his next birthday. Other than that, though.

He aimed the lasers at Zim's ship, made sure his finger wasn't over the self-destruct trigger, and prepared to shoot. Then he heard voices again, and his internal paranormal investigator and world defender were promptly usurped by the internal survival instinct. He backed behind the cables again—no way he was letting Zim see him here. Instead, he listened:

"Come on, Pur! This is what you're here for, isn't it?! The _mission?_ Right?"

Purr? Who was Purr? Another one of Zim's Irken allies?

"Yeah, well... I don't wanna," said a freakishly high voice. Dib concluded this must be a female. So, Purr was female. Whoever she was.

"Why not? Are you sick or something?"

"No! It's just..."

"What?"

"You know..."

"What?"

"I'm kinda..."

"What?"

There was a prolonged silence. Dib waited, breathing through his mouth to keep as quiet as possible. After a long silence, Purr spoke: "Because it's gross, that's why!"

"Gross?!" Zim sounded indignant. "Since when is _dancing_ gross? I mean, we've already done it..." He paused. "Eh... How many times?"

"Four. And that doesn't matter, anyway!" Man, Purr had a shrill voice. Definitely a female. Carefully, he set down his gun and started moving aside wires, trying to get a better view of Zim and the other alien.

"Why not?" Zim demanded.

"Because it wasn't gross then! I mean... well, it _was,_ 'cause it was with _you._"

"Hey!"

"No offense."

"Oh. Okay."

"But that was before I saw you... You know!"

Before she'd seen Zim what? Dib was hopelessly lost. At last, he managed to push aside the right wires to get a very narrow glimpse at Zim. Thankfully, he looked as confused as Dib felt. "Saw me what?"

"Saw you... with the... having those... thingy eggs! Laying them! _That's_ gross. That was horrible. I don't even think that... thingy in your stomach is supposed to do that."

Thingy in Zim's stomach? It was at that moment that Dib (finally) realized that Zim was stark naked. Dib's internal teenage boy and his internal paranormal investigator briefly battled over what Dib's reaction to this would be, the investigator won out, and a delighted smile spread across Dib's face. Okay, so under normal circumstances seeing a fellow classmate naked would be disturbing beyond words, but _this_ was a lesson in alien anatomy. He pulled out one of his cameras (the one that made the quietist click when it took a picture), turned off the flash, and started taking photos. He remembered to remove the lens cap by the fifth shot.

"It's not gross!" Zim insisted. "And it's supposed to work like that! How did you think the eggs got out?"

"I was trying not to," Purr replied.

Irken anatomy was clearly not related to mammals at all, although Dib had figured that out from the lack-of-nose-and-ears thing already. Zim had no anatomical features that even vaguely resembled human genitalia—in fact, all he had was an odd slit on his torso.

Dib zoomed in and took several pictures of it, to compare later to Earth-based beings and see if there were any similarities. It ran about from where Zim should have had a diaphragm down almost to his crotch. The skin was slightly peeled back, like gums over teeth, to reveal two hard plates that looked like the closed wing covers of a beetle. Dib wondered how the slit thing worked. The teen boy in him vehemently insisted that he did NOT want to think about it.

"Who cares, anyway?" Zim said. "This has nothing to do with dancing!"

"Yeah it does! I mean, I gotta go in that... thingy, don't I?

"The thingy is called a vajayjay" the base computer said.

"Whatever! I don't want to touch it!"

Dib messed with the wires in front of him some more, trying to get a look at Zim's partner. When he did, he almost dropped his camera. There was a _giant_ sitting beside Zim. If that was Purr, she had to be twice Zim's height when she stood. She had a huge Pak, a pronounced slouch, and violet eyes. Dib snapped a couple dozen pictures. Tak had violet eyes, too—well, more like indigo, but still. Maybe eye color among Irkens was a sex-linked trait? Males had red and females had purple?

"Why wouldn't you want to touch the amazing Zim?!"

Purr gave Zim a disbelieving look. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Why not?"

"No answer."

"Come on!"

"Nope."

"What about the mission?"

Purr opened her mouth, then shut it. She gave Zim an annoyed look. "It's always about the mission with you, isn't it?"

The mission? Did that mean Zim's mission to take over the world? What did... whatever they were talking about (Dib knew full well what they were talking about) have to do with taking over Earth?

"Of course. Everything is about the mission," Zim said.

Everything... Did he really mean that? Could even the offspring have to do with Zim's mission?

Purr grimaced. "Yeah, fine. I'll just... get it over with, I guess..." As she spoke, she took off her shirt. Zim tried and failed to not look overjoyed. "But I never want to watch you lay eggs again."

"Of course, my Tallest."

Dib didn't have the opportunity to process what Zim had just said, because he was immediately distracted by Purr's anatomy. He tried to come up with an appropriate way to describe the organ on Purr's torso, in approximately the same position as the slit on Zim. A... a fin? Half a plate? A bat wing?

And then he saw what Purr _did_ with the thing, and his higher brain functions unceremoniously shut down.

A tiny part of his psyche made a comment on the valuable educational experience of witnessing Irken mating habits, and convinced him to take a few pictures. The rest of him, however, unanimously voted to get the hell out of there. As soon as he was sure that Zim and Purr were sufficiently distracted (it didn't take long), he made a dash from his hiding place to the lift, got out on the main level of Zim's base, and ran like crazy all the way home.

If Dib kept having experiences like this around Zim, he'd probably end up too traumatized over sex to ever lose his virginity.

xxx

"Tallest Red! It's an honor," High Control Brain Technician Fry said, saluting as Red and two Guards entered the Spike of Judgment. "We weren't expecting _you_ to visit, my Tallest," he added, stepping aside to let Red pass.

The wording sounded odd. "Why? Were you expecting someone else?"

"Actually, yes," Fry admitted. "We've been waiting for Tallest Purple for several weeks now, and so we thought he would be coming when we heard a Tallest had made an appointment with the Control Brain Triumvirate. We haven't found anything yet, but, it would make sense if he were coming to check on our progress."

"Your... progress?" Red squinted at the CoBra Tech. "What are you talking about?" He'd never heard about Purple doing anything with the Triumvirate.

"You don't know, sir?" Fry gestured to the lifts. "Please, allow me to show you, sir. You wished to see the Triumvirate, yes?"

"Duh."

Fry stepped aside to let Red and his Guards on the lift, then got on himself and pushed the button for the level with the Triumvirate. "I'm surprised Tallest Purple hasn't told you yet."

"Told me what?"

The lift doors opened; fry stepped out first, then followed Red to the Brains' chamber.

"That he's ordered twenty-four CoBra Techs to thoroughly check the Control Brain Triumvirate for malfunctions, malware, and defects," Fry said. "He's having many other Control Brains checked too, from what I've heard. At least ten other Brains on Judgmentia, every one on Irk, and I don't know how many others."

"Oh. Right. Of course, that thing." What?! Why hadn't Red heard about any of this? Checking the Control Brains for defects—that was a really, really big deal. How could Purple possibly keep something that huge from him? And, if he was willing to hide that, how much else hadn't he told Red?

But he couldn't let it show that he hadn't known, much less that this information disturbed him so much. What would the empire think, if it found out that its two leaders were this far apart from each other?

What in the Firmament was Purple scheming behind Red's back?

Fry walked up to an enormous set of double doors, made of smooth black metal and kept shut with five huge outer locks and probably quite a few hidden ones. Fry typed a long code on a panel beside he door, then stepped in front of it to let it scan his eyes. There was an enormous echoing sound that could have been ten huge locks clicking apart in sequence, or a hundred snapping open together. "After you, sir," Fry said, standing aside as the doors slid open.

Red glided in, and was surprised to see the room wasn't empty.

As always, there were the three Control Brains, the Triumvirate that ran the entire empire—large, menacing, and shining bright in silver-green metal. The room around them was a mess of girders and panels, shields and powered-down lighting structures; everything was black and emerald and almost glowing in the dark.

However, in the shadows surrounding the Brains were bright flashes of crimson clothing. Irkens. CoBra Techs. There were so many. What could Purple possibly want them to find?

"Yik! Sushi!" Fry shouted. "Replace the Left and Right Brains' outer panels. Vermin! Seal the panels, finish up that anti-malware scan on the Left Brain, and get out."

"The scan's gonna take another six degrees," one of the Techs protested.

Fry scowled. "Useless little treacherous..." he muttered to himself. "Fine! Cancel out, start over later."

"But—"

"Move it! The Tallest needs to speak to the Brains."

That got them moving. The CoBra Techs all hurried to finish up their work and get out. Several metal plates were missing on the two outer brains, exposing their inner workings. Red tried to figure out what all the buttons and switches and plugs meant—he liked to think he was pretty good with some mechanical stuff, although he didn't think very highly of his skill with computers—but he couldn't make sense of anything before the plates covered everything up and were locked back in place.

"Almighty Tallest Red. We have been anticipating your arrival. We are pleased to see you arrived without incident," the Control Brains said, each in turn, unperturbed by the work being done on their bodies. Then, their six red optics flashing, they spoke in unison: "**We have much to discuss.**"

"Uh-huh." Red watched the CoBra Techs working. He wasn't going to talk while they were still in here. Wait—was that one a _Vortian?_ Purple had hired a Vortian to work on the Brains? Whatever he was trying to find, he was certainly trying hard.

"We'll leave you to your business, my Tallest," Fry said. "When you see Tallest Purple again, please let him know that we haven't found any problem in the Control Brains' programming yet."

"Er, okay. I'll tell him."

The Techs and Red's Guards quickly left the room; the Tallest always conferred with the Control Brains alone. The last one to leave was the Vortian in a Technician's uniform, shooting Red a look like he wanted to say something, before he sighed and left. What was _that_ all about? Hells, Red hoped he hadn't met that Vortian before. If he had, he'd probably hit on him. That could be awkward.

"**Greetings, Almighty Tallest Red,**" the Brains boomed. "We are eager to begin. We assume you wish to discuss your co-ruler, Almighty Tallest Purple?"

"Oh yeah. You have no idea," Red said.

"You will find that we understand very well why you are concerned," a Brain said. "Within the past degree, you learned about Almighty Tallest Purple's betrayal of your trust, regarding his secret decisions in regards to ourselves. Is this correct?"

Red nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. That's... that's just... crazy! And it's not just this. He's been doing crazy stuff for... I don't know how long. I don't know what's he's up to. It's... scary, that's what." It was such a relief to be able to say all this. The Control Brain Triumvirate was the heart of the Irken machine. It would know what to do.

"We agree with your judgment. Based on everything you know, you are right to be suspicious of Almighty Tallest Purple. However, you are aware of very little that your co-ruler has been doing," the Brains said. "**Almighty Tallest Red, your day is about to get worse.**"

xxx

The Swollen Eyeball logon on Dib's computer screen flickered, and was replaced by a silhouette with glowing eyes. "Howdy—Mothman, isn't it?" the silhouette asked, then yawned. It was around two in the morning. "Call me Gourdy. How can I help ya?" Gourdy hesitated. "I'm a woman, by the way. I reckon y'can't tell, what with the Deep Throat trick the Eyeball does on our voices. Now ya know."

"Uh, thanks," Dib said. "I'm calling on business, Agent Gourdy. I've got two important things to talk to the Eyeball about. Er... could I be connected to Agent Darkbooty, please?"

"No can do, kiddo," Gourdy said. "I got direct orders not to letcha talk with the higher-ups unless you can prove ya got somethin' good. I hear you had an embarrassing episode with waffles, couple o' years back."

Dib scowled. One botched attempt to get video evidence of alien activity and no one ever forgives you. "I've got pictures," he said. "Evidence of alien life! Really, this time." He held up the flash memory card from his digital camera, even though Gourdy probably couldn't see what it was from his silhouette.

"I'll be th' judge of that, Mothy. Pictures first."

"Okay." Dib plugged the card into his computer, attached all the images to an email, and sent it to gourdy(a)swolleneye(.)net. "Got them?"

"Keep yer pants on, I'll check. Lessee..." Gourdy muttered to herself as she typed; the taps of her keyboard sounded as deep as a bass drum through the voice converter. "I think I got... no... dag nabbit! The ornery little thing deleted itself! Stupid high-tech pile of—wait a minute." Gourdy was quiet a moment, typing. "Spam? Now what's it doin' in there?"

"I don't know," Dib said wearily. "Just open it."

"All right, all right. Hold yer horses, kiddo. Now, what do we have here..." A brief span of silence while Gourdy looked at the pictures. "These're sure nice, kid, but I ain't convinced just yet. How do I know this little green critter ain't one of your friends wearing body paint?" she asked. "It could be a skin condition, too."

Dib resisted the urge to throttle his computer screen. Skin condition! "Are you out of your mind? You're in the Eyeball! NO nose, NO ears, big BUG eyes, and ANTENNA! This is an alien! What are you, a complete amateur?"

Gourdy's voice went steely. "Hon, do you have the slightest notion who you're talkin' to? I used to be a professional tabloid photographer." She pronounced it FOE-toe-GRAPHer. "I know every trick in the book, an' I could make yer average fourth grader look like this with duct tape, swimmin' trunks, and a bag of ping pong balls."

"Really? Wow. Can you show me sometime?" He'd been trying to come up with a convincing Irken disguise for months. "Uh... but the pictures are real! Look at the alien's stomach. What about that?"

"Ah... hmm. Y'can't do that with stuff from Hobby Lobby," Gourdy admitted. "What's that supposed to be? An alien pussy?"

Dib winced. "Er... Maybe. I'm not entirely sure, though."

"That's more like it," Gourdy said. "When a guy knows all the answers, it's probably 'cause he made 'em up himself. So, y'don't know what it does. Sure likes like alien pussy, though." She clicked through a few more photos, commenting as she went by on Pur ("If the little one's got an alien pussy, then I reckon this here is alien cock. Somehow"), and finally stopping. Her glowing eyes shot open wide. She whistled. "Jesus H. Christopher Robin! Ain't never seen nothin' like that before."

Dib didn't even ask what Gourdy was looking at. He knew. "Sorry about that, by the way," he said. "I kinda caught the two of them by accident during... er... a mating ritual, and I thought it'd be good for research purposes to have pictures but... it's a little... well..."

Even with the silhouette effect, Dib could tell that Gourdy was looking straight in his eyes. "Kid, d'you know what you got here?" she asked. "I told ya I was a tabloid foe-toe-grapher. I can't even begin to count how many times I had to get a couple o' friends to get in scandalous poses fer me t' photograph and say I'd gotten a lead on a celebrity affair."

"Er..."

"But this," Gourdy pointed at her own computer screen, "_this_ ain't nothing like any tabloid photo I've ever seen or taken. Ain't nothing alive could imagine up something that freaky. There's no way you hoaxed this, kiddo."

Dib's mouth dropped open. "So that means..."

"This is the real deal."

"And you..."

"I believe ya, Mothman. Heart an' soul, I believe ya really got pictures of extr'estrial critters."

Dib pumped a fist in the air. "Yes! Finally!"

"I'm sendin' out copies to some of the other members, 'case something happens to yours," Gourdy said. "Reckon we'll be getting in contact with ya again in no time flat."

"Be sure to send them to Agent Darkbooty and Un—uh, Agent Toadstool," Dib said excitedly. Uncle Denny had to see this.

"Toadstool? Tarnation, boy! Why would you want that creep to... Oh, right. You and him are pals, ain't ya? All right, I'll send it on to Toady..." Gourdy shook her head in disbelief. "Hey, didn't ya say earlier you had two things to call the Eyeball about? What's the other one?"

It took Dib to remember what she was talking about. "Could you connect me to the agent in charge of psychiatric care?" he asked. "I think I might have been traumatized today."

"Takin' these pictures? Reckgiven."

"What?"

"I _reckon_ that's a _given_. Don't you northern folks know nothing?"

"Sorry. Sheesh."

"Ya should be. Ignorance ain't nothing to be proud of. Stay in school," Gourdy said, nodding. "How old are ya really, anyway?"

"That's classified," Dib said, trying to sit up taller.

"That young, huh? Well, for a minor, you done good today, Mothy," Gourdy said. "The Eyeball's gonna be real proud of you, soon as they get a gander of these pictures. Those alien varmint ain't gonna be safe on our planet for long. Gourdy out."

xxxxx


	29. March Fifteenth

Merry pick-your-holiday and a happy January First Eve, I'm updating! For the first time in a century. I apologize profusely. To celebrate the occasion, I'm not even waiting until Friday, what fun. I'm sorry I haven't updated, but most of my writing lately has been going towards original fiction. See, I've got this vampire named Thaddeus Stork; he has a zombie girlfriend, likes The Beverly Hillbillies, and is scared of Count Dracula, teenage quarterbacks, and the theory of evolution... ah, never mind. New chapter!

A special thanks to my emergency spur-of-the-moment beta JoeMerl, and to my constant beta Ricchan.

And in regards to _**ART CONTEST STUFF**_, I've got... two entries. I think. One might not count. Because of this, the deadline is now whenever-the-hell-I-get-enough-entries-to-justify-this-thing, so please do submit some more stuff. Winners will be decided either by me or by poll, first prize is requested fanart from me and getting to name a smeet, second prize is either requested fanart or naming a smeet, third prize is a thumbs-up. And now, by request, fanart AND fanfics are included in the contest. (Those would be... what, fan-fanfics? Eh, whatever.) Further rules located in chapter 26.

Now then. On to the long-awaited chapter 29! Huzzah! And it might be the longest chapter so far, how nice.

**Edit:** I wasn't gonna bother to say this until the next chapter, but apparently some people are starting to get worried (and one of them reviewed anonymously so I can't respond to them...) so I thought I'd say something here. For those of you who hadn't noticed, I flamed myself on this chapter. I have a very, very good reason for why I did so: I was kinda bored, and I wondered who would notice. I figured it'd just confuse the few people who DID notice, and then I'd explain it at the start of chapter 30 and it'd be done with. But today I got a review from someone who thinks that I'm trying to say that I hate my own story and don't want to write it. That isn't true at least, although I realize that inexplicably flaming oneself could lead others to draw that conclusion. For those of you that have noticed, and were concerned: I have nothing but good feelings towards this fic, and only wish I had enough time to work on it faster. I'm just a little goofy sometimes. (And just a random note: if you have any sort of question or concern about ANYTHING at all, please please PLEASE give me a way to get back to you in your review. A signed-in review or an email address are great, but not necessary; if you do a non-signed-in review but you type in the same name as your username, I'll still be able to get back to you. Or give me your LJ name, your AIM name, anything... but seriously, don't call yourself "anonymous" if you're worried that I hate my own story, because then I won't be able to PM you and say there's nothing to worry about. Instead, I have to edit the Author's Notes of my latest chapter and hope you see it.)

xxxxx

In Short Supply

March Fifteenth

xxx

Dib's Saturday had been very exciting. He'd made his call to Gourdy some time after one in the morning, and by five, Agent Darkbooty himself had called Dib back (and woken him up), completely flabbergasted by his pictures. He'd declared Dib a prodigy of an investigator and said his evidence could finally bridge the gap between the field of paranormal investigation and the world of "hard" science. Dib had been honored.

Then he'd gone back to sleep.

Later that day, he watched Gaz beat up that crazy mailman that all the parents told their kids to avoid, procrastinated on his math homework by watching segments of Godzilla backwards and listening for hidden messages, and programmed Tak's ship to play Solitaire instead of plot global conquest when it wasn't doing anything else.

Okay, so the rest of his day wasn't that interesting. But it was an exciting morning, at least. And Sunday started off pretty well, too.

Dib was eating breakfast (slightly stale Super Toast and even staler Count Cocofang cereal) when the doorbell rang. "Gaz, could you—"

"Get the door, Dib."

Dib frowned. "But you're in the living room! Why can't you—"

"Get the _door_, Dib."

Muttering, Dib left the kitchen and walked past Gaz to the front door, shooting the back of her head a dirty look as he passed. His annoyance disappeared the moment he opened the door. "Uncle Denny?!"

"Hey there, Dib!" Denny leaned into the living room, peering around suspiciously through thick glasses. "Your father isn't here, is he?"

"No."

"Good." Denny stepped inside, set his bag down, and glanced at the couch. "Hi, Gaz."

"Mph." She was never as enthusiastic as Dib about their uncle's visits. She still claimed that they weren't related at all.

"What are you doing here?" Dib asked. "I mean—it's great to see you! But today's a Sunday and tomorrow's a work day." Denny lived about five hours away. Dib hoped that Denny was there to talk to him about his recent pictures. "Don't you have to be back at school by tomorrow?"

"Don't remind me," Denny muttered. Sometimes Dib got the impression that he hated going to school more than his students did. "Anyway," he continued, heading into the kitchen, "I thought I should spend the holiday with my favorite nephew and niece."

"We're you're only nephew and niece," Gaz muttered. It was her final contribution to the conversation.

"Holiday?" Dib frowned, following his uncle into the kitchen and sitting down in front of his Count Cocofang cereal again. Then it wasn't about the pictures, he thought with disappointment. "But it's the middle of March."

"Precisely!" Denny was rummaging through the fridge, and emerged with a can of soda-free Poop Cola: _now made with 100% liquid caffeine!_ "This is the exact middle of March! March fifteenth! The Ides of March!"

"Oh, right. When Caesar was assassinated." That hadn't even occurred to Dib; it was just March 15th to him. "I didn't know anyone celebrated that."

"Celebrate?" Denny seemed shocked. "I'm here to protect you!"

Dib gave him a skeptical look. "Okay... From what?"

"Haven't you heard of the 315 Theory?" Dib shook his head. "Well!" Denny leaned forward, grinning with crooked teeth. "I guess I'll have to tell you about it."

"Okay." Dib leaned forward as well. If Denny was getting excited about this, then it had to be about the paranormal, and he told great stories about paranormal theories.

"Julius Caesar isn't the only emperor to be assassinated on the Ides of March," Denny began mysteriously. "Rumor has it that it's happened before, and many times since then. Countless political disasters have occurred on the Ides, causing national turmoil and the collapse of entire civilizations!"

"Really? Like when?" Dib asked. "I've never heard about anything other than Caesar."

"Deh... I think there was a Chinese lord or something," Denny said, thinking hard. "During the Han dynasty. Or maybe Qin."

"What lord? How come you can't think of any others?"

"Look it up later! Who's telling this story, anyway?" Denny snapped. "We don't know about any more Ides of March disasters because there's a government conspiracy that won't tell us about them to prevent global panic every mid-March. They wouldn't even tell us about Caesar if Shakespeare hadn't made the story popular."

"Oh, okay." The government covered everything else up, anyway. Even Dib's dad admitted that the government cover-ups were true. They'd confiscated his blueprints for the Super Subatomic Bomb. "Go on."

"The 315 Theory says that there's some kind of universal psychic phenomenon that's riled up every March fifteenth, and it mainly targets politicians. It destabilizes their 'diplomatic immunity' fields and makes them vulnerable to political treachery," Denny said, as if this were all very logical. "Complete research hasn't been done yet—no thanks to NASA Place—but we think that cultures across the universe suffer on the Ides of March as well."

Dib leaned forward, fascinated. "Really? Why's that?" That would make something happen every 365 Earth days, which probably didn't correspond in the least to any alien calendars... Zim's home planet would have about ten Ides of March a year. Wouldn't that be nice... "Does the psychic energy originate on Earth and radiate out to other planets or something?"

"I dunno." Denny shrugged. "I'm a fairy specialist. But! The point is, on this day, _countless_ civilizations could be starting to fall apart. The seeds of social discord are being planted, treacheries are being plotted, distrust is abound, and life as somebody-out-there knows it is ending!" By the end of his speech, he was standing on the kitchen chair, waving his hands in the air as if he were trying to warn the entire house about the danger. The house didn't take well to this, and toppled Denny from his chair. "_Gaah!_"

Dib jumped up to help. "You okay?"

"Duh..." he grunted, "duh-don't worry about me! I'll live." He grabbed the table and shakily pulled himself up. "Uh, anyway... I thought I should stay with you two today. After all, a couple of days ago it was Friday the thirteenth, and _now_ the Ides of March. Who knows what might happen?"

"Good point," Dib said. Friday the thirteenth and the Ides of March, so close together? How often did that happen? "I'll go get my laser." He ran out of the kitchen, completely forgetting his half-eaten wholly-stale breakfast, and headed for the stairs.

"You do that!" Denny shouted. "I'll... uh... wait for you." He walked into the living room, and then, very carefully, sat beside Gaz. "So..."

Gaz gave him a very annoyed sideways glance. "Mmph."

"Seen any fairies lately?" he asked hopefully.

Gaz slowly began radiating a force field of doom.

Upstairs, Dib found the super-laser he'd gotten from Zim's offspring yesterday morning. Well, that had _probably_ been yesterday morning, assuming it hadn't still been Friday night. He wondered where the Ides of March disaster would be striking this year. Maybe at Zim's culture?

But what were the odds of that? There was no way Earth would be so lucky as to have the Ides strike Irk. Dib would do better to just worry about his own planet.

He had no idea how close the Irken Empire was to falling apart already.

xxx

"We shall tell you all that we know about Almighty Tallest Purple," one Control Brain said, and the other two elaborated: "We will begin with what you have just witnessed. You now know that your co-ruler has ordered that a swarm of Control Brain Technicians do a complete check of our systems."

"Right. Yeah," Red said. "What's that all about?"

"We are not sure what precisely he intends to find," a Brain said. "However, it is apparent that he believes that we are impaired. **He is mistaken**."

Red smiled wryly. "Yeah. It won't be his first time." Still, even as ditzy as Purple was, to suspect the Control Brains of malfunctioning... That was _really_ far out there, even for Purple. Hells, that was more like something _Zim_ would think up.

"We are pleased to see that you do not share Almighty Tallest Purple's delusions. If the Irken Empire is soon to be facing turbulent times, it needs a reasonable leader. You were wise to come to us," the Brains said. They whirred thoughtfully a moment, and then said, "This is our assessment: **Almighty Tallest Purple is a danger to himself and to the entire Irken Empire.**"

Red's antennae went rigid. No. Purple? Dangerous? That was impossible! Purple couldn't even shoot a gun straight! How could he possibly be...

But... if the Control Brain Triumvirate said he was, then he was. For a moment, the Control Brains' audience chamber went even darker; all Red could see was their glowing red optics. "R... really..."

"You should not be surprised. You suspected the same yourself." The Control Brains, suspended by legions of pulleys and levers and pistons, lifted themselves higher, optics brightening. "**We will show you how we came to this conclusion.**"

Before Red could object, the Control Brains snapped out two thin wires and plugged them under the lower two panels of his Pak. He could almost feel the jolt of the information coursing through his Pak, up his spine, into his brain.

Records: of transactions, purchases, exchanges of monies, currencies—_data encrypted._ Of travel, of ships, of velocities and trajectories, fuel and electricity, galaxies and destinations—_data missing._ Of words and gestures, voices and faces, countless messages, babble, speeches, monologues, communications—_data corrupted._ Again and again, nearly overwhelming Red, data from every part of the empire. And every piece of information riddled with holes—data hidden, data incomprehensible, data not entered, data simply not there. Before Red's mind was completely engulfed by the data (and the lack thereof), the Control Brains finally withdrew the wires.

"All the missing data is connected to Almighty Tallest Purple's activities. **He is hiding from us**," the Brains said.

Red didn't say anything to that; he was still trying to regain his bearings after the mass of info. Purple, hiding from the Control Brains. Okay. Red could absorb that if he took it one piece at a time. And all that missing data... Red had known that he himself didn't know much about what Purple was up to lately, but it seemed like even for the Triumvirate, information on Purple was in short supply.

"First, eighteen weeks ago, Almighty Tallest Purple claimed to be taking a vacation to Foodcourtia," said the left Brain, then the right: "We do not know where he went, because we did not suspect him then, and thus did not track him. **However, he never went to Foodcourtia**."

Eighteen weeks ago... Red thought he remembered when Purple went on that vacation—or whatever it really was. He had come back with Duper Dip and shared it with Red, even though there was a Duper Dip shortage at the time. If he hadn't gotten the dip on Foodcourtia, where had he gone?

"After Exile Zim's unusual transmission from Earth—which we are sure you must remember..." (Red nodded vigorously. Hearing Zim wail like he was dying was on Red's top five list of Most Horribly Weird Things Zim's Ever Done.) "...Almighty Tallest Purple left the Massive. However, as before, he did not go to Foodcourtia as he later claimed to have done. He went to Vort in his personal Spittle Runner, ordered an unknown Vortian prisoner to perform undocumented modifications to the Spittle Runner, and then left Vort. **Since then, his Spittle Runner has been untrackable, untraceable, and invisible on our radars and our Galactic Positioning System**. We are now unable to determine where Almighty Tallest Purple goes any time he uses his Spittle Runner."

"Really? There's something you _can't_ find on your GPS?" Red said. "Wow. How did Pur manage to do that?"

"If we knew how he had done it, he would not have done it," a Brain responded.

Red blinked slowly, trying to work out what that meant. "Okay... just go on."

"He has recently made several trips to the smeet academies on Irk, without any identified purpose. **There has also recently been an unexplained surplus of smeets, with a few more entering the academies than the smeet birthing facilities have records for**. We do not know why this is. Such an error in our inventories is unprecedented and, in fact, **it is impossible**. We can only conclude that some sort of tampering has been committed. We have no evidence that Purple is involved, beyond the circumstantial."

Purple couldn't have done _that_, Red thought. Could he?

"Within the past few weeks, Almighty Tallest Purple has made and received several untraceable transmissions from his quarters. Whoever or whatever the source of these transmissions is, his, her, or its computer system has several non-Irken components that jam our recording mechanisms. Thus, we can view and hear the transmissions as normal but although they pass through our short-term memory banks, we cannot save them on our hard drive. **In short, we are incapable of remembering the transmissions**. Because the memory-storage function of Control Brains is identical to that of Irken Paks, we believe that any Irkens who view the transmissions, with the exception of the two participants in the actual conversation, will not recall them either."

"Wait—you can't even record his transmissions?" Red asked, bewildered. This was starting to be too much for him to take in. He had to latch on to some small detail so that he could avoid dealing with the sheer mass of the accusations against Purple. _This_ particular detail was good enough for him. "How's that even possible?"

"We just told you how."

"Oh. Yeah. Can't you get someone else to record the transmission?" Red asked.

"We just told you why that wouldn't work."

"But... the Irkens having the conversation can remember the transmission and _you_ can't? Does that even make sense?"

"It does."

"No it doesn—"

"**It does**."

"Yeah, okay. Have it your way." Red hovered back a few steps, hands half-raised in surrender. "So, if you want to record the transmissions, why can't you just—"

"**You are avoiding the issue**."

Red paused. "Yeah. I guess so." He sighed. "So. Pur's really been up to all that, huh."

"Yes, he has. Almighty Tallest Purple has also been involved in several other suspicious activities that we shall not describe in great detail, as we have downloaded the particulars into your Pak. Among these are suspicious monetary transactions with untraceable destinations, and several unusual queries into the Empirical Statistics Database."

As well as black market rumors that Purple had recently hired an exoskeletal extender, but if the Brains didn't know about that yet, Red couldn't bring himself to tell them now. Perhaps an extension was one of the suspicious monetary transactions the Brains had mentioned?

What was going on? This wasn't the Purple that Red knew at all. He couldn't be up to anything _bad_, could he? Whatever he was doing, it had to be for the good of the empire somehow. Right? "Do you have any idea—a guess, whatever—about why he's doing all this?"

"This is what we suspect," the central Brain said, before all spoke together—optics even brighter, voices booming as if they were rendering a judgment on a defect: "**Almighty Tallest Purple is not intentionally harming the Irken Empire. He is not a traitor. However, we have difficulty believing he would practice such secrecy for an endeavor intended to benefit the empire. Therefore, whatever he is doing is a personal matter, not a political one, and most likely a shameful matter.**"

Red's antennae twitched, the only flinch he'd let himself show: that was almost the exact same declaration he expected the Brains would someday make about his xenophilia. Red knew all about shameful personal matters. He could actually relax a little bit at this information; he wasn't about to assume that Purple might be a xenophile, too (and Red thought he was pretty good at picking out fellow xenophiles from a crowd) but if Purple had anything even _slightly_ similar going on, then Red would understand. Maybe he could even help. Perhaps this wouldn't be a total disaster.

Red shut his eyes for a moment, fixing that thought in his Pak—he would _not_ let this turn into a disaster—before opening them again and taking a deep breath. "Okay. What should I do?" he asked the Brains.

"If you confront Almighty Tallest Purple directly, he will deny his activities, regardless of how much you have discovered or inferred on your own."

Red nodded. He understood that perfectly well. If one day Purple marched into Red's quarters, followed by every Vortian Dancer he'd ever hired and brandishing photographic evidence, Red would _still_ deny having met a single one of those Vortians.

The Control Brains whirred for a moment. "These are our suggestions: **Watch him. Study him. Suspect him.** Do not let him out of your sight. Do not let him get away from you. Do not let him continue his deceptions and facades. **Report back to us regularly**."

"Yes sir. Sirs." Red realized that it had been a very, very long time since he'd last been given an order. There was something relieving in having a command to follow; he wasn't expected to do this all on his own anymore. He could hold his breath, shut his eyes, and follow blindly. That was all he was really qualified to do.

"Is there anything else you wish to ask of us, Almighty Tallest Red?" the central Brain asked.

"Just one thing," Red said. He still had never gotten a good answer on the whole recording-the-transmissions issue. "If you can't record Purple's transmissions yourself and if any Irken that watches them can't remember them, why don't you get someone without a Pak to watch them?"

The Control Brains stared at him a moment; the left one tilted a bit to get a better look at him. They whirred for a moment. "An odd suggestion," they finally said. "It is highly unorthodox. You are suggesting that we allow an alien to view the transmissions."

"Er, yeah. I guess I am." Red lowered his gaze from the Brains. "Would that work?"

"It might. We would have to find a suitable alien. Ones loyal to the empire are difficult to come by. **Nevertheless, we thank you for the suggestion**. We had not ourselves thought of possibly using an alien to assist us."

No, they wouldn't, because Control Brains contained the minds of former Irkens, and the Triumvirate contained the minds of the Irken Empire's former Tallest. And normal Irkens didn't think about aliens the way Red did. Well, as long as the Brains didn't ask _why_ Red had thought about going to aliens for help... "Thank you for your assistance," Red said, and turned to leave.

"You were lucky we found time to meet with you on such short notice," the Brains said as he left.

Red had asked to meet with them nearly four weeks ago. Short notice. Right. He almost laughed to himself as he left the Brains' audience chamber.

Even the Almighty Tallest, the most important Irken in the empire, had to make appointments with the Control Brains.

xxx

Vermin was leaning against a wall, separate from the other CoBra Techs standing outside the audience chamber, wondering when he was going to get back to work. More importantly, he wondered if he was getting paid for this break. Listening in on the other Techs' conversations, this didn't seem to be on their minds, but _their_ food was cheap. Snacks. Vermin wished he could survive on snacks. Imported seafood was expensive...

The doors to the audience chamber opened, and the Techs looked forward, ready to get back to work. Several remembered to hastily salute at the sight of Tallest Red. (Vermin saluted first.)

Red's eyes narrowed at the sight of them. Before any could start heading back into the audience chamber, he snapped, "Go away. You're all dismissed."

Dismissed? Vermin stared at Red. Like, for-the-rest-of-the-day dismissed, or go-find-a-new-job dismissed?

"Purple was mistaken about the Brains," Red said. "There's nothing wrong with any of them, and you're all wasting your time trying to find something wrong. Return to your regular maintenance duties."

The Techs' antennae were rigid in shock, and they slowly started glancing at each other, wondering what was going on. (A fair number shot dirty looks at Vermin, as if it were somehow his fault.)

"What's the matter? You're getting an order from your Tallest! Get out of here and get back to your other work!"

Uncertainly, the Irken Techs dispersed. Vermin didn't. He didn't _have_ other work to do. He'd been jobless until Tallest Purple had hired him for the purpose of checking the Triumvirate for defects. If he wasn't doing that, then he was job-hunting again. For Vortians, hunting for jobs was about as easy as hunting for herbivorous Blorchian Rats. Vermin didn't like his job, but it was the only job he had.

Tallest Red breezed past Vermin without even glancing down at him, a dark, thoughtful look in his eyes. His Guards hurried to his sides, and Vermin followed before he could get too far away. "My Tallest!" he said. "Wait! Uh... please?" He was probably being incredibly disrespectful (and he felt bad because of it), but he was desperate, so he excused himself this once.

Tallest Red jerked to a stop and turned, giving Vermin a startled look. "Huhwha?" He blinked. "Oh. You're that... Hey, have we... met before?" The Tallest's Bodyguards gave him a puzzled look.

"I don't think so, my Tallest," Vermin said. He was used to this; most Irkens figured if they'd met one alien, they'd met them all. "I mean no, sir. I would certainly remember it if I had met such an awesome Irken as you."

Tallest Red looked relieved. "Yeah. Right. So what do you want, Technician?"

Vermin smiled in glee. "Hey! You didn't call me—" Vortian, the way any other Irken would. What is it, Vortian? Hey, Vortian, get over here. As if Vermin _wanted_ to be reminded of his species. But this wasn't a revelation he wanted to share with his Tallest. He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Uh, sorry, my Tallest. I'm actually trying to humbly ask a very small favor of your Almightiness. Really."

Tallest Red's Guards glowered at him and lowered their weapons to aim at his chest. They undoubtedly thought he was being suspicious, possibly because of something he'd said (he'd tried his best) but probably because of his species. The Tallest, however, looked like he was trying to fight down a grin. Vermin hoped this meant Red liked him, and not that Red was thinking up something cruel to do to him.

The Tallest managed to put on a serious face, and tipped his head up in that superior way Tallest had that made it look like they were even taller. "What is this request?"

"A very small one, my Tallest," Vermin said. "I know you just dismissed all the CoBra Techs, and—I certainly don't question your wisdom, my Tallest, but the Triumvirate requested that I do a special assignment for them." He still had to track down the mysterious hacker that had accessed Irk Control Brain 2. "Can I finish their assignment before I get shot off?"

"Heh."

The Guards gave Tallest Red disbelieving looks, and he glanced around like he had no idea who had just laughed. Vermin, meanwhile, felt stupid; of course the Tallest had laughed at him, he'd tried to use an Irken cuss. It had just slipped out. He considered trying to take it back or apologize or something, but that'd make him look even stupider, so he just stood there.

"What's your name, Technician?"

Tallest Red still looked a little amused, but it wasn't the derisive I'm-better-than-you amused that most Irkens had. Vermin wondered if maybe he should have tried to get in contact with Tallest Red to ask for a new assignment when Tallest Purple had made him a CoBra Tech. Red seemed to be a bit nicer than Purple, despite the public image that Purple was the wussier of the two. And given some of the rumors Vermin had heard about Purple lately... "It's Vermin, my Tallest."

Red gave him a suspicious look. "Your _full_ name?"

Another surprise: Tallest Red knew about Vortian naming conventions. All Vortians went by two names, one from their mother and one from their father. But Vermin had legally called himself Vermin since he'd immigrated to the Irken Empire and didn't plan on changing that. "Control Brain Technician Vermin, my Tallest."

He realized belatedly he'd forgotten to put "Alien" before his title, but Red didn't question him about it. He just squinted one eye, went, "Hmm..." and hovered over to the Control Brain Triumvirate's doors. He slid them open a crack, and shouted, "Hey, did you give a special assignment to—"

"**Yes.**"

Red paused. "Okay." He let the doors shut (and the many locks clicked closed behind him), then turned back to Vermin. "All right, you're not a liar. You can finish your assignment."

"Woohoo!" Vermin pumped a fist in the air. "Thank you, my Tallest! It's an honor to serve you."

The Guards didn't look pleased at this turn of events. It was really a miracle that Tallest Red had agreed to it at all; when was the last time an Irken had done something nice for Vermin?

"You know," Red said thoughtfully, "since the Triumvirate likes you so much, maybe you should keep working for them. They still need _some_ Techs."

Looks of pure horror crossed the Guards' faces. And he wasn't too pleased with this turn of events, either. Yes, he'd keep his job, but, considering how friendly Tallest Red was being, perhaps he could move up a bit?

He shifted awkwardly. "I'm... very grateful, my Tallest," he said. "But, uh, if I may ask another small favor? Please?"

Now the Guards were looking at _him_ in shock. This was the point at which most aliens making similarly bold requests got thrown out of airlocks. Tallest Red merely cocked an antenna and said, "Well? What is it?"

Vermin took a deep breath. "When I finish this assignment can I be a Pilot please my Tallest?"

Red stared at him. "_What?"_

Vermin winced. "Uh... should I repeat it?"

"No... It's just kinda weird for... uh..."

He didn't even have to finish. Vermin looked down, crestfallen. It's kinda weird for Vortians to be Pilots for the Irken Empire. Weird enough that it had probably never happened before, and probably never would. Vermin should be grateful that the Tallest was trying to be tactful, rather than just ordering his immediate execution for insubordination.

The Tallest tried again. Delicately, he said, "It's weird for... for a Tech to switch to Pilot. There's a... lot of training to be a Pilot, you know."

Vermin looked up hopefully. Surely, the Tallest—_the_ Tallest—couldn't be suggesting that Vermin might become a Pilot? "I've had the training, my Tallest!"

"Really? Are you any good?"

"Yes, sir!" Sure, like he was going to claim that he was horrible.

"Fine. You'll be a Pilot."

Vermin stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. "My Tallest, I—"

Red held out a hand to cut him off. "After you finish your assignment."

Vermin's legs were trembling with joy. He tried his best to stop them. "I... thank you, my Tallest." His voice was trembling, too.

Red stopped looking at Vermin and stared somewhere over his head. That was probably to avoid meeting the baffled looks of his Guards. If Vermin knew anything about Irkens, they probably thought their Tallest had a short circuit somewhere in his Pak. Well, Vermin certainly didn't think so. He thought the Firmament had opened up and dumped a pile of good luck in front of him.

"Yeah, well, I heard that Vortians are better than average Irkens at piloting Spittle Runners, since you built them," Red said. (Vermin had heard exactly the opposite, that Vortians were good at building ships but couldn't pilot them worth shit. He wondered if Red was lying to make himself look better.) "I better have heard right or you won't be keeping your job. Got it?"

"Yes sir, my Tallest! Absolutely! Thank you!" Vermin bowed, almost wobbled off balance, then turned around and hurried off to get to work. As soon as he found that hacker, he'd be flying high.

xxx

This wasn't the Tallest Red that High Bodyguard Gummy thought he knew. He watched the Vortian happily scurry away, then looked at High Bodyguard Mok, wondering what he was thinking. Mok looked just as clueless. They'd have to talk about this when they got away from Tallest Red.

The Tallest didn't bother to look at them. "Well? Let's go," he said, gliding past them and towards the lift. "I want to get back to the Massive before Pur finds something stupid to do." Red was cutting his "vacation" short—it was supposed to last a few more days.

Slowly—loyally—the two Guards followed him. Even if he was acting weird, he was still their Tallest. And if Purple kept acting weird, Red might be their _only_ Tallest.

They didn't have a chance to speak until they got to the ship that would take them back to the Massive, some kind of snazzy personalized transport that Gummy didn't recognize. They were sent to the passenger chamber with the Pilot, because Red had decided he wanted to drive. Once the Tallest was out of hearing range, the Pilot had muttered a prayer to the Heavens and Hells that Red knew how to fly. Apparently, Gummy thought, the Pilot was a Firmamentalist. As a Narcissist, all Gummy could really do was hope the Tallest wasn't about to get them all killed.

Although they were equally-ranked Guards, Mok was 132 units to Gummy's 130 units, and Mok never let him forget it. Personally, Gummy thought they were so close in height that any differences had to be minimal. In any case, they were the two shortest High Bodyguards Gummy had met (since High Bodyguards tended to have a lot of, well, height), so shouldn't they kinda, y'know, support each other? Mok didn't think so. He enjoyed outranking Gummy too much. And so Gummy fully expected him to dominate whatever conversation they had about Tallest Red.

But on the ride back to the Massive, he wasn't glorying in his superior-to-Gummy-ness. He just sat in his chair with his arms crossed, looking worried.

They had left Judgmentia's gravitational pull (without incident, probably to the extreme relief of the Pilot) before Mok decided to share his thoughts. "Did Tallest Red seem weird to you today?"

Gummy glanced at the door between the passenger chamber and the cockpit—still shut—and nodded. Any question Mok asked him was rhetorical, but this time Gummy actually agreed. "Really weird," he said. "What was up with that thing with the Vortian, huh?"

"I don't know. But it was weird," Mok said.

"Yeah. Weird," Gummy agreed.

"Really weird."

"Mm-hmm. Weird."

"Yeah."

The Pilot scooted forward in his chair, closer to the other two. "What did he do?"

"Hire a Vortian. As a _Pilot,"_ Mok said. "That's moving into your territory, isn't it?"

The Pilot winced, lowering his antennae. "I've heard some weird stuff about Tallest Red," he admitted. "And Vortians."

"Like what?" Mok asked.

"Well, I heard that before he was even Tallest, he traded his left thumb to a Vortian to memorize the blueprints of the Massive," the Pilot said.

"Hey, I heard something like that," Gummy said. "But the way I heard it, he promised the Vortian government his Pak when he died if they gave him four degrees on the universe's most comfortable couch. That's why he slated Vort for conquest, so he wouldn't have to keep the deal."

"I thought Tallest Spork slated Vort for conquest, and Red and Purple just kept his list when they took over?" the Pilot asked.

"That's what they _want_ you to think," Mok said superiorly. "Now _this_ is the truth. I heard it from a Guard named Poosh, see?"

The Pilot nodded. Gummy rolled his eyes; Poosh would say _anything_.

"Poosh was in Soldier training at the same time as Tallest Red and Tallest Purple. Apparently, Tallest Red was gonna go on to be a Pilot after basic training. But then he took half a year off from training, and when he came back, he trained as an Elite Soldier instead."

"Really?" the Pilot said. "Why on Irk would he not want to be a Pilot?"

"He got converted. To that Firma-whatsit-thing," Mok said knowingly. "He had to give up being a Pilot for religious reasons, see. And," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "to convert, he had to _dance_ with sixty-three Vortians."

Gummy rolled his eyes again. The Pilot flattened his antennae. "I'm a Firmamentalist," he said angrily, "_and_ I'm a Pilot." Gummy snickered. Take _that_, Mok's ego.

"Really?" Mok said, confused. "I guess Poosh got that part wrong." He paused. "So what was dancing with sixty-three Vortians like?"

"What? I didn't dance with sixty-three Vortians!"

"Then how many did you dance with?"

The Pilot waved both hands at Mok, clawing off the accusations. "None!"

"Oh." Mok's eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Hmm. Well, it's still true that there's something weird about Tallest Red, yeah?"

Both Gummy and the Pilot checked the door again before nodding in agreement. Merely expressing these opinions was high treason.

"One thing's for sure," Gummy said. "He's still better than Tallest Purple."

The Pilot and Mok nodded. It was probably the first time Mok had ever agreed with Gummy.

"_Anyone_ would be better than Purple," the Pilot said. "I know a Nav Tech on the Massive who said that as soon as Red left for Judgmentia, Purple left and said he'd be back before Red's vacation ended, then said that no one was allowed to tell Red."

Mok and Gummy stared at him, and then at the door separating them from Tallest Red. "Do you... think that order applies to us, too?" Gummy asked.

"Of course it does," Mok said. "No one means no one, Gummy."

They sat in silence a moment. Suddenly, Mok's antennae pricked up. "Say," he said slowly. "Isn't Tallest Red coming back from his vacation early?"

xxx

A report submitted by Alien Control Brain Technician Vermin to the Control Brain Triumvirate, late in the day known on Earth as the Ides of March: _Subject: the hacker in Irk Control Brain 2_

_It's been tracked down and half-identified. Half-identified because the Pak of the hacker has not been registered in the Central Empirical Statistics Database, which is really weird. It self-identifies by the name of Splayd, in training to be a Soldier and then an Invader, with a projected height of 97 units. It's not even a year old. I suspect the Pak itself is hacked to give out false information; nothing that young could know how to hack the Control Brains, and that's also the only reason I can think of for why it isn't registered in the Database._

_I've found the hacker's location, though. Planet Earth, the base of Exile Zim, and I think that's all I need to say. I can't imagine why Zim would want to hack a Control Brain, but who can ever tell with him?_

_Incidentally, while going through his base's files, I found a lot of weird stuff going on in his base: traces of Paks from Irkens that don't exist, evidence that the hangar has been used to harbor some kind of spacecraft that also doesn't exist, a few unauthorized transmissions directed somewhere towards Vort, and records of what seems to be a hotbed of black market exports in hydroxylic acid. Where's Zim finding that much water on a planet like Earth?_

_It also seems that parts of his base computer have been reprogrammed. (The new lines of data identify as "Macintosh" programming; does that mean anything to you?) I discovered that the new programming interferes with his incoming and outgoing transmissions so that they can't be recorded by anything—computers, Paks, whatever—anything __except_ _for Zim's computer and whoever's on the other end of his call. He's wiretap-proofed his base, and he probably didn't do it accidentally._

_It looks like exiling Zim didn't get rid of him after all. I don't know what he's up to, but it looks like he's planning something big. With your permission, I plan to contact the Massive tomorrow and inform the Tallest of my discoveries._

xxxxx


	30. Resisty Rebels

What fresh hell is this! An update? Perchance, a new chapter?! Preposterous! When was the last time there was one of _those_ things?

Too long ago. For which I apologize profusely. And I'm afraid that updates won't be very fast-coming in the future, either, due to the fact that I shall be going to college. Which is not a very conducive environment to fic-writing. It's easy when you can ignore 70 percent of what's going on in your high school classes and just scribble ficcage in your notebook, but college classes? Not so much. Even so, this fic is most assuredly not dead, don't worry.

Be that as it may, to any of you who are interested in this fic and who have NOT Story Alerted it, you probably should. I'm worried that something horrible might happen, like you'll forget about the story before the next update, which would make me sad. Oh, so sad.

In regards to Art Contest Stuff, we've now got, like, half a dozen-ish entries. Yay. Consider it still ongoing, just for the heck of it.

And now... a chapter! Huzzah and hallelujah! Woot! Squee! And other such exclamations! Here we go.

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Resisty Rebels

xxx

Two transcripts from a server on Callnowia that has been hijacked by a black market organization:

_**WELCOME to BLACK MARKEPALOOZA! We are Server 366543 and we are happy to help you in all your illegal needs. Please note that all questions we ask are for your own benefit, because if the Control Brains someday access this server and its transcripts, anything you say could be used to clear you of guilt. If you choose to leave any question blank, we will helpfully fill it in with the default answer, "I like to kill smeets."**_

_**What is your name?**__ INVADER ZIM!!_

_**We are sorry, but the name "Invader Zim" is not in our databases. Perhaps you mean "Exile Zim"? **__foolish server-fool! i'll break your spine for your rudeness!_

_**We cannot help you unless you help us. Is your name "Exile Zim" or not? **__feh. whatever._

_**Yes?**__ fine._

_**Are you a dealer or a customer?**__ DEALER!!_

_**What is the contraband product you wish to sell on the black market today?**__ HYDROXYLIC ACID!!_

_**For what purpose do you wish to bring hydroxylic acid into the Irken Empire? **__MONIES!!_

_**You have given the answer "monies." Is this the only reason, or is it your hopes that your customers do something treasonous with the hydroxylic acid?**__ treasonous? as if i, ZIM, would ever do something treasonous to my empire or my tallest!_

_**Are you aware of the fact that there is a 96 percent chance that anyone who purchases hydroxylic acid will use it to attempt assassination on the Almighty Tallest?**__ shut up. you're stupid._

_**Processing your request. ... Thank you for using Black Markepalooza. We look forward to further business with you, Exile Zim.**__ I AM INVADER ZIM!!_

_**Sure you are.**_

xxx

_**What is your name? **__Frylord Sizz-Lorr._

_**Are you a dealer or a customer?**__ A customer._

_**What is the contraband product you wish to purchase from the black market today? **__Hydroxylic acid._

_**You are in luck, Frylord Sizz-Lorr. We received a new shipment today. For what purpose do you wish to use hydroxylic acid?**__ Merely for the benefit of my customers whose biology requires hydroxylic acid._

_**Do your customers include, or have they ever included, Irken traitors, anarchists, defects, or xenophiles; alien rebels, resistance forces, slaves, or scientists; or any other individual malcontents that may have a vendetta against the Tallest?**__ No to all of the above except alien rebels and resistance forces, and members of those factions are not allowed to purchase hydroxylic acid at my establishment._

_**Are you aware of the fact that should you mistakenly sell hydroxylic acid to a member of the aforementioned factions, there is a 96 percent chance that they will use it to attempt assassination on the Almighty Tallest?**__ I am aware and prepared. I am confident in my abilities to neutralize any such threats before they arise, and willing to face the consequences should I fail in my duties._

_**Processing your request. ... Thank you for using Black Markepalooza. We look forward to further business with you, Frylord Sizz-Lorr.**__ Thank you for your services._

_**Have a nice day.**_

xxx

Sizz-Lorr did not discriminate against his customers. He would serve everyone—Irken, Vortian, Blorchian Rat, whatever—with the same quality of food and service, just as long as they paid. Admittedly, while this policy had made Shloogorgh's one of the most popular restaurants on Foodcourtia, it had also caused him some trouble from time to time. About a half-year ago, Tallest Purple had threatened to shut him down upon discovering that he occasionally served Planet Jackers, and if Tallest Red hadn't intervened, he'd probably be out of business. And he would be in even more trouble now if anyone found out that for the past third-year or so, several of his regulars had been members of the Resisty. He had a compromise with them: they would not be allowed to purchase hydroxylic acid and would be kicked out if they started plotting revolution in his restaurant, and in return Sizz-Lorr would not call in a swarm of Soldiers to arrest them.

He didn't like to think of himself as tolerant of alien lifestyles, because who would want to be _tolerant_, of all things? Yuck. He thought of himself merely as a good restaurateur. And, if anything else could be said of him, he was probably one of the least bored Irkens in the empire, considering the freaks he dealt with on a daily basis.

For example, there was Dwicky.

Sizz-Lorr was watching the news on a screen behind the counter while Mofo took orders at the register. Today was a slow day. Sizz-Lorr didn't know why, of course; with all the completely incomprehensible feeding patterns of his customers, it was beyond him to calculate the rise and fall of lunchtime crowds. All he could rely on was his carefully-honed Frycook senses to warn him when a rush was coming, and the long-term schedule of Foodening cycles generated by Foodcourtia Control Brains 1 and 3. He wished the Control Brains would warn him when he was about to have a boring day, but he knew better than to question the Control Brains. Far be it for _him_ to think he might know what it took to run a restaurant that catered to aliens better than a bunch of Control Brains stuffed with the data of the Paks of Irkens that had died long before Operation Impending Doom ever started...

But when things were _this_ slow—the restaurant was only populated by a handful of regulars who liked to camp out in the booths—and his Frycook senses were as dead as a lake, it was safe to say things would stay slow for a while. So he was watching the news, waiting for the advertisements.

Between every news piece were two ads, and Sizz-Lorr had recently purchased some ad time through the Control Brain of Amillionchannelsia. On channel 2, the general empire-wide news channel, every seventh ad was going to be for Shloogorgh's. (All the slots on channel 1, the pure ad channel, were too expensive for him.) He'd seen one of his ads already, and then five ads for other, less important things. As soon as this story about an attempted terrorist attack on Vootdealershipia was over, there would be a sixth unimportant ad, and at last, there should be another one of his ads. He was watching to make sure that his order had actually processed correctly.

While he waited, he harassed his customers about the news. "Hey, Vortian," Sizz-Lorr shouted. He twisted the screen around so the mismatched pack of rebels could watch the news item, about a terrorist attack on Vootdealershipia. (The Resisty rebels were camping out in the booth nearest the front counter. Again.) "Was _this_ your work?" Not that he cared—he didn't own a Voot—but he liked staying on top of what his customers were up to.

"Huh?" Lard Nar stood on his seat, squinting at the screen. "What, that attack on Vootdealershipia? I would never plan an attack there! Too many of my dear friends and relatives poured their minds into the construction of Voot Cruisers for me to think of willingly damaging their products!" He sat back down, head tipped up haughtily. "We were aiming for Videogamia, actually. _Someone_ put in the wrong coordinates."

"I said I was sorry," Spleenk muttered.

"I hope you are!"

"I _am!_"

"No you aren't!"

Sizz-Lorr turned the screen back around as the Resisty members bickered amongst themselves. It looked like the Announcer was wrapping up this story. Almost time for a commercial break...

"HIII, Sizz-Lorr!"

"Uh." Sizz-Lorr looked towards the door, along with most of his other customers. (With the exception of those watching Lard Nar berate Spleenk.) And here was another regular. "Hi, Dwicky."

The weird alien practically skipped up to the front counter, grinning so widely that Sizz-Lorr could see where his carnivore teeth ended and his herbivore teeth began. Omnivore mouths looked so... wrong. "I've got monies," he said brightly. "And that means I can eat!"

"Yes, it does," Sizz-Lorr said patiently. The first few times Dwicky had come in (stranded here by Plookesians, he claimed), he'd had to beg food off of other customers. Apparently he'd finally found a job on Foodcourtia, because he'd started buying his own. "Order from Mofo."

Dwicky turned just as happily to the shorter Irken behind the register. "Hi, Mofo! How you been lately?" he asked. "Hey, how'd that party you and Taffee threw last night go?" Taffee was Mofo's roommate outside of work hours.

"Oh, that. Pretty good. Taffee hired some high-price Dancers, you know," Mofo said. Dwicky hadn't been invited to the party, of course, since he was an alien, but that didn't stop him from asking about it. Sizz-Lorr knew by now that Dwicky loved gossiping with his employees, no matter what the subject was. He had the oddest feeling that Dwicky was _studying_ them, sometimes.

"Oh, really? You mean they were tall?"

"Even better: green-eyed."

"Oooh." Dwicky nodded appreciatively. "I've always been partial to green eyes, myself..."

The idea of Dwicky being even remotely attracted to any physical features that Irkens embodied quickly killed Mofo's enthusiasm for the conversation. He flattened his antennae, and said, in monotone, "What do you want."

"Let's see. I think I want..." Dwicky stared up at the menu. And stared. He did this every time he ordered.

Dwicky was an odd one, and not necessarily in a good way. He'd explained his story to Sizz-Lorr once, during a slow period. He hailed from a planet outside the empire, Earth—an ill omen, considering who else was currently on that planet. He said that over half of his body consisted of hydroxylic acid. He claimed to be fascinated by all things non-Earthen, despite the fact that he'd been living off his home world for quite some time now; obviously a xenophile in the making. Yeesh. And to top it all off, he claimed to be a therapist, which was kind of like a psychiatrist, which probably meant his job was to work with... er, suicidals. But given all these negatives, he was still a good customer. That was all Sizz-Lorr cared about.

"This time I'll get..." Dwicky trailed off again. "Maybe I'll try..." He frowned, stroking his chin with one hand. "What haven't I tried before?"

"Only the poisonous foods," Mofo said, his voice flat. "Try the Vort dogs." Sizz-Lorr would have to compliment Mofo later for the suggestion. They had a surplus of Vort dogs.

"Okay! I'll have the Vort dogs! And a cup of... uh... hydroxylic acid, you call it?" he asked. Mofo nodded. "Do you think you could put some ice in that?"

Mofo blinked. "Uh. Some what?"

"Ice? Little cubes of frozen hydroxylic acid?"

Sizz-Lorr and Mofo looked at Dwicky like he was crazy. Mofo slowly shook his head. "We're fresh out of... ice," he said.

"All right. Just the cup of water, then." Dwicky sighed. "It's like traveling in Europe all over again..."

The argument at the Resisty's table had apparently started to subside, because the tin ice-cream cone—Slinkypoxy or something—finally noticed the new arrival. "Heeeey!" he squealed.

Dwicky whirled around. "Oh my God!" he screeched. "It's Shloonktapooxis! Hi, Shloonktapooxis!"

The tin cone screeched right back. "Oh my Xlophmogger! It's Dwicky! Hi, Dwicky!"

"Oh, hells..." Lard Nar muttered.

"How ya been man?" Shloonktapooxis asked.

"I been cool! How 'bout you man?"

"Aw man, right on! You been keepin' it real?"

"Fo sho! You?"

"You know it dawg!"

It was as if they were speaking an alien language and the translation software in Sizz-Lorr's Pak had spontaneously imploded.

Shloonktapooxis suddenly turned to Sizz-Lorr. "How 'bout you? What up dawg?"

The software was still imploded. "Uh... come again?"

"What's the news, dude?"

"The...? Oh, Slark!" He turned back to the screen showing channel 2. A new article was on. He'd completely missed the ads. "Shoot!"

Shloonktapooxis hovered, uninvited, behind the counter, to look at the screen. "Heeey, the news," he said. "I wanna hear this!" He tapped the volume button with the tip of his cone, turning it up. Dwicky leaned over the counter to try to see the screen.

"...while the rumors are still unconfirmed, we have now heard from several unofficial eyewitnesses who claim that the Massive is, indeed, flying without a Tallest aboard," the Announcer said. "Almighty Tallest Red has been on a scheduled vacation for the past few days. However, Almighty Tallest Purple's whereabouts are still unknown."

"Typical," Mofo muttered, coming out of the back room holding a basket of Vort dogs and a cup with a toxic chemicals warning on the side. He set them on the counter. "This is just what we get. I've always said you can't run one empire with two Tallest."

"You've never said that before," Sizz-Lorr said.

Mofo looked puzzled. "Well... I should have."

"Other witnesses claim that when Tallest Purple left, he ordered all Irkens aboard the Massive to not tell Tallest Red anything," the Announcer continued. "These witnesses spoke with the assurance that this network would keep their identities secret. However, as always, we are willing to accept bribes." She smiled deviously. "The Control Brain Triumvirate has informed us that Tallest Red is at this time returning to the Massive. There is still no information about Tallest Purple."

Sizz-Lorr gave Lard Nar and his rebels a hard look. The Vortian shook his head emphatically. "We don't have him. Really!"

By this time, nearly everyone in Shloogorgh's had left their booths to listen to the news. Sizz-Lorr had turned the screen sideways so everyone could see. This was disturbing information indeed.

"What's the difference between Red and Purple?" Dwicky whispered to Shloonktapooxis.

The cone replied, "Red is a primary color, but you have to mix red and blue together to get purple."

"I meant the Tallest."

"Uh..." Shloonktapooxis twitched a little. "By the way, that was a shrug of cluelessness." Sometimes Sizz-Lorr wondered about his customers' mental facilities.

An odd feeling suddenly seized his squeedilyspooch. He looked up, alarmed. His Frycook senses... was it a lunch rush coming? No, something bigger... a food critic? No, no... it had to be...

"You!" Sizz-Lorr barked, pointing at Lard Nar. "And you!" At Shloonktapooxis. "All of you Resisty things! You have one degree to get out of my restaurant before I kick you out so hard, you'll land back on your home planets. Get going!" He was not going to have members of the Resisty happily having lunch (or, angrily having lunch, or whatever it is they did) in his restaurant when the imminent arrivals... arrived. He would be in a world of trouble.

"S-sir!" Lard Nar snapped off a fearful salute. Even the most hardened rebels cower before the wrath of an experienced Frylord. "Everyone, move out!"

There was a stampede of disorganized Resisty aliens racing for the door. Shloonktapooxis hesitated. "But, me an' Dwicky—"

"Hurry up, conebutt," Lard Nar snarled, grabbing him by his tip and dragging him out the door.

"But, but—why?" he wailed. The door shut before Sizz-Lorr could hear Lard Nar's answer.

Sizz-Lorr said, "Mofo, go find Gashloog and tell him to start cleaning—You going to pay for that, Earthen?"

"Eep?" Dwicky froze halfway between the counter and a booth, holding his Vort dogs and water. "Er, right, right." He put his food on the table and came back, searching through his pockets for his monies.

Sizz-Lorr turned back to Mofo. "Tell Gashloog to start cleaning the restaurant. I want it spotless."

"Yessir," Mofo said, giving him a puzzled look. But a few steps into the back room, he stopped, and asked. "Er, sir? What was that all about?"

"You can't feel it?" Sizz-Lorr asked.

Mofo shook his head.

Sizz-Lorr sighed. "You need more training. We're going to have a special visit soon," he said. "The Almighty Tallest."

Mofo's eyes widened. "The Al... wh-which one?!"

"Both."

"Both?!" Mofo extended his Pak-legs. "I'll tell Gashloog right away, sir!" he shouted, skittering back to find him.

Dwicky finally found his monies, and set them on the counter. "Both Tallest will be here? I take it that's a big deal to Irkens?" he asked.

"The biggest," Sizz-Lorr said.

He wondered why they were coming. Considering the recent news... The Massive unpiloted, the Resisty allowed to get away with attacking Vootdealershipia, Tallest Purple missing...

Whatever was going on, Sizz-Lorr was willing to bet it wasn't going to be pretty.

xxx

Zim had been surprised when, the morning after their dance, Purple had insisted they should be _anywhere_ on Earth but in the base that day.

"But my Tallest, our eggs are going to hatch today!" he'd protested. "All six of them!"

"One of them has YY chromosomes, Master," the computer pointed out.

"Shut up! I am Zim!"

"I _know _they're going to hatch today," Purple said testily. He was sitting slouched on the couch on the main level of Zim's base, devouring a bag of cheese puffs. (Odd, Zim thought; they'd just danced the night before, he wouldn't have thought that Purple would need to snack so soon after that.) "That's why we're not going to be near them."

"What?! But why wouldn't you want to watch... Oh." Zim nodded knowingly. "I understand perfectly, my Tallest. After watching my amazing egg-laying skills, you're still uncomfortable to be around them. Right?"

Purple squinted an eye at Zim. "Uh... kinda? I wouldn't call that 'amazing skills,' but—"

"No need to explain!" Zim said, holding a hand up. "You're simply jealous that I have demonstrated the miracle of spawning new life, and you wish now that you had been layer and I had been fertilizer so you could be capable of such a miracle yourself. That's it, isn't it? Right?"

"N-no. Not... not really." Purple was starting to look slightly nauseous.

"Your envy is understandable," Zim said cheerfully. "However, I would never take the opportunity to gloat, even if my biological functions _are _now automatically superior to those of the rest of the Irken Empire. After all, you know, it's not every Irken who has both the mental facilities to be a superior Invader _and_ the physical capabilities to—"

"Zim!" Purple snapped. "Cut it out! I thought you didn't even like being a l—uh... you know!"

"Yes, it is a terrible burden," Zim said. "But it's my duty to the empire. So it's still honorable, right?" After a moment, he thoughtfully added, "Actually, come to think of it, I suppose I'm the _only_ Irken with the physical capa—"

"ZIM! Can we talk about something else, _please!_"

"Of course, my Tallest!" He leaped onto the couch next to Purple. (It was nice to be skinny again. He could leap on stuff much more easily.) "So, Pur. What are we gonna name them?"

"Ugh." Purple grimaced. "Later."

Zim frowned. "If you say so... Pur." He'd been looking forward to naming the smeets. He already knew he wanted to name one of them Jittar. He'd known a smeet named Jittar once, during his initial Soldier training. To this day, nobody believed Zim when he claimed that he'd had nothing to do with the tragic accident that killed Jittar, even though they'd been working together on a sparring drill with lasers and the hole through Jittar's head looked suspiciously like the hole that sparring lasers made when someone deliberately took off the restraining bolt that kept them from being fatal. No, Zim had nothing to do with the death. Although if he had, he would have liked to point out that he must have made one good shot, to get such a perfect hit.

"So, what are we gonna do, Pur?"

"I don't know," Purple whined. "Why do I have to come up with something, huh? Can't you think of something? I know you can think of something, you're always coming up with crazy ideas for your world domination plans..."

Zim's antennae stood straight up. "The plans!" He jumped to his feet. "Thank you for reminding me, my Tallest! I'd nearly forgotten! I need to collect some supplies for my greatest plan ever! We need watermelons!"

"Your _what?_" Purple stood up and watched as Zim ran into the kitchen, putting on his contacts and wig as he went. "What plan? When did this happen?"

"It's brilliant!" Zim said, opening the refrigerator door. He'd hidden Purple's disguise in there, the coat and hat; he pulled them out and hurried back into the living room, where he got on his Pak legs and held the clothes in Purple's face. "Utterly ingenious! Once it's implemented, every Invader in the empire will be emulating my plan! You'll make them pay me royalties, won't you, Pur?" Not that Zim needed the monies. He would gladly supply his blueprint to his fellow Invaders if it meant furthering the cause of the Irken Empire. But he'd still prefer if his genius were recognized.

"Roya-whatties?" Purple said, taking the clothes. "Hey, I told you not to work on any of your plans until _after_ the egg mission, Zim!"

"You gave this one your personal approval, my Tallest!"

"I did not!"

"You would have if you knew what it was." Zim quickly stretched out to his full height on his Pak-legs, so that he was slightly taller than Purple. Reckless as it was, he had used this trick once before already on Purple—trying to make himself look physically taller than the Tallest, and using that psychological advantage to his... er... advantage. "I'll show you my plan later, Pur. You'll see how amazing it is. I mean it!"

"Uh..." Purple lowered his gaze. As Zim had expected he would. It was hard for most Irkens to bring themselves to look _up_ at another Irken. Unless, like Zim, they were used to it. "I'm... sure it's... great, Zim, but I _ordered_ you not to..."

It was a psychological trick that worked on almost all Irkens—even, apparently, the Tallest. Irkens had a near-genetic predisposition to lapse into automatic submissiveness when faced with an Irken apparently taller than themselves. "Oh, don't blame yourself for that. Almost everyone makes mistakes," Zim said dismissively, raising himself a fraction of a unit higher. "Come! I will show you how amaz—aghkk!"

Purple had wrapped one hand around Zim's torso and him jerked down. "M-my Tallest. Squeedilyspooch. _Pain_. Please—"

"Do _not_," Purple growled, "_ever_ raise yourself to eye-level with me again, Zim. In fact, I never want to see your eyes at _Pak_-height to me. Understand?" So perhaps Purple wasn't entirely susceptible to the trick.

"Y-yes... sir!"

Purple let go of Zim, who promptly retracted his Pak-legs and fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen. "If you try to do that just _one more time_, Zim, I'll..." Purple trailed off, and then tried again. "I..."

Honestly, Zim wasn't very interested in what Purple would do if he tried to do that just one more time, because he was still trying to recover from what Purple had done _this_ time. As amazing as Zim was, even he was rather sensitive when he'd laid a bunch of eggs less than a day earlier.

"Voids," Purple muttered. "Come on, Zim, get up. I know you've taken more damage than _that_ in the past, haven't you?" To Zim's utter astonishment, Purple actually bent over to hook his hands under Zim's arms and lift him to his feet. The _Tallest_ had bent over—made himself _shorter_—in order to help Zim stand up. "Well?"

Zim looked up at Purple. "Whuh?" He was too surprised for articulate speech.

"Were you going to go get the stuff for your stupid plan or not?"

"My..." His mind slowly focused again. "Oh. That. Of course not! Zim has no stupid plans! We are gathering supplies for my _brilliant_ plan!" He hurried to the door, and then turned to look at Purple. "Onward to triumph!"

"Yeah, yeah..." Purple activated his disguise hologram and followed Zim to the door. "This had better be good."

"If it is, you'll approve it, won't you?"

"After the egg mission."

"Hah! I'll have that silly mission done in two weeks tops!" Zim bragged, smirking. "Prepare to be dumbfounded!"

"Uh-huh."

They were out of the base for the next several degrees as Zim collected all the supplies that he thought would be necessary to construct his latest machine.

Consequently, they were both gone when Tallest Red contacted the base.

xxx

"So what are we gonna do now, huh?" Shloonktapooxis asked brightly, pirouetting around Lard Nar's command chair. "We gonna do something soon, right? Huh? Or are we just gonna float out here doing nothing? Because if that's what we're going to do, just let me know, and I'm totally down with that! You and me and the crew, floating in space and doing nothing! Just hanging out and being chill, dawg. Because the Resisty, it _so_ does chill, ya know? It does chill like nobody's business, even when it's _not_ gonna do something soon. It—"

"Shloonktapooxis," Lard Nar said wearily.

"Yeees?"

"Shut up before I tape your mouth closed."

"All right! Now we're doing _something!_" And thus, Shloonktapooxis happily shut his mouth.

Lard Nar sighed with relief.

Technically, yes, they _should_ have been doing something. Probably planning their next big attack. And, as both the leader and the brains of the Resisty, it was Lard Nar's responsibility to make sure that the attack happened.

However.

He didn't feel like it.

It wasn't just that getting kicked out of Shloogorgh's had thrown off his groove for the day. They weren't allowed to plot their subversive rebellious attacks in there anyway.

And it wasn't even that their latest attack had been such a failure. Although it really _had_ been a failure. A fifth-year of planning (by the Irken calendar), a tenth-year of minor raids on smaller Irken colonies in order to store enough fuel for a full-out attack, weeks of sleepless nights and frantic preparations for their attack on Videogamia... all ruined in less than a degree. By the time Lard Nar had discovered that they'd accidentally attacked Vootdealershipia instead of their target... he couldn't even imagine how much destruction he'd caused to the ships that his Vortian brethren had so lovingly designed.

But no, that wasn't why he didn't feel like planning an attack. Honestly, he was just uninspired.

In all the time since the Resisty had formed, what good had they done? Had they made _any_ progress? Well? Had they? No, they had not. And it was because every single one of their plans ended up being nothing more than a big, stinky, useless pile of...

"Piss-rocks," Lard Nar muttered. Now he was bored. He pushed up his goggles to rub his eyes. "Shloonktapooxis?"

The cone nodded vigorously.

"You can talk again."

"Woo-hoooo! All right! You da man, dawg! Give it up for the big LN!"

"Uh-huh." Lard Nar sighed as Shloonktapooxis resumed bouncing around the bridge of the Resisty's ship, chanting Lard Nar's initials as enthusiastically as if he'd just liberated Untitled Irken Colony No. Five. (Lard Nar would be happy to leave Untitled Irken Colony No. Five until last on their quest of world-liberation. Formerly named Skwiggawigga Pow-Wow Ploof, it was Shloonktapooxis's home planet. Rumor had it that Shloonktapooxis was unusually sedate for his race, so Lard Nar wasn't looking forward to meeting anyone else of his species.)

Well, Lard Nar wasn't bored anymore. Just annoyed. Which wasn't helping him feel any more inspired.

"LN! LN! L—Gasps and exclamations!" Shloonktapooxis said. "I could call you Ellen! Can I? Can I _please_?"

"Oh, I would be _delighted_," Lard Nar muttered.

"I acknowledge your sarcasm and discard it as irrelevant! You're da _bomb_, Ellen."

Lard Nar groaned as the pace of Shloonktapooxis's bouncing increased. "Can't somebody make _something_ interesting happen around here?!" he griped.

Their view screen was shattered by a gigantic crate of pretzels.

xxx

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo had no idea how long he'd been trapped in a box. Surely it had been days since he'd crawled into the package that he hoped would take him far away from the Conveyor Belt Planet. But even if he should die in that package, this escape plan was the only hope he had. If he did die, at least the Irkens who received the box would be in for a nasty surprised.

Nobody wanted to find a dead Screw-head in their delivery of pretzels.

At least he had been well fed, albeit deprived of light to the point that he hardly wanted to eat. And it didn't help that he was getting pretty darn tired of pretzels, either. But where could he go? Outside? Hah! No, he didn't want to end his life quite yet. And there was still the hope that he could spoil some Irkens' snacks.

He was understandably surprised when, after countless days of random and weightless floating in space, he felt his box suddenly slam into something.

The box shuddered, cracked open, and Smikka Smikka Smoodoo fell face first on a cold metal floor. He heard a monstrous roaring whoosh, and wearily lifted his head to look for the source of the sound. Maybe he'd landed on a really windy planet?

But no, he seemed to be inside a... a spaceship of some kind, probably. Smikka Smikka Smoodoo had never been in a spaceship before. And the whoosh was probably coming from the big glass window of the ship, which had been shattered.

Somebody was shrieking that they were all going to die. Someone else was screaming, "Where's the automatic emergency shield? Why hasn't it activated yet?!" Smikka Smikka Smoodoo watched as a gray alien with really pointy legs ran past. "Why isn't our automatic emergency shield _automatic?!_"

The pointy-legged alien ran back and forth several more times, pounding randomly on various control consoles. At last, it pushed down on a giant button with both hands, and a metal screen slid down over the ship's big glass window, stopping the whooshing sound.

The pointy-legged alien leaned wearily against the control console, its legs trembling and its mouth wide open as it panted. (It had very sharp teeth, Smikka Smikka Smoodoo noted. He didn't like that.) Finally, it said, "Why... does the button for the automatic emergency shield say 'donut'?" It looked around suspiciously. "Spleenk?!"

"It wasn't me!"

"Oh, wasn't it?!"

"No!"

"Yes it was!"

From directly over Smikka Smikka Smoodoo, a voice chirped, "Hey, look at this thing! Can I keep him?"

He gasped and jumped to his feet. A large metal... cone was floating over him. "Who are you? What are you?"

"I'm..." The cone blinked at him, and an expression of panic crossed its face. "Wait. Which one do I answer first?" It looked at the pointy-legged alien. "Boss?"

"I'll handle this." The alien dragged a chair from one of the control consoles over to Smikka Smikka Smoodoo, and sat as it began to interrogate him. "I think you owe us some answers first. Who are you, what are you doing here, and what's that thing in your head?"

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo hesitated, considering the pointy-legged alien and his crew. These aliens, whatever they were, certainly weren't Irkens... and he couldn't see signs that suggested Irkens would be somewhere in the ship, either. There wasn't even a surface marred with a sigil of their empire. Perhaps he could trust these aliens with the truth. What did he have to lose?

"I am Smikka Smikka Smoodoo, one of the subjugated people of the... ugh... the Conveyor Belt Planet." The Irkens' name for his home planet still disgusted him. "I made a desperate attempt to escape from subjugation by sneaking into this package of snacks you see here. My only wish is to see my people liberated and the Irken scourge wiped from my planet." He gulped, hoping that these aliens were sympathetic. "Oh, and this thing in my head is a screw."

The pointy-legged alien gave him a considering look, crossing its legs as it thought. "You seen to be telling the truth," it finally said. "You're in luck, Smikka Smikka Smoodoo. Your wish is shared by every member of the Resisty. I'm the leader of the Resisty, Lard Nar. We'd be glad to—"

"Wait! _You_ are the Resisty?" Smikka Smikka Smoodoo said, his eyes widening. "My people thought you were only a legend. I can't believe you actually exist!"

"Well, yeah. I guess we are the stuff of legends, aren't we?" Lard Nar said proudly.

"No, I mean, we thought that if you were real, you would have saved us by now," Smikka Smikka Smoodoo said. "What's taking so long?"

"Oh. Well... It's tough work, fighting a revolution against a huge empire, you know," Lard Nar said.

Smikka Smikka Smoodoo nodded. He knew that from personal experience.

"We've, uh, encountered a lot of... little difficulties along the way. We have to collect supplies, recruit others to our cause, evade Irken authorities—"

"And come up with plans," the metal cone said cheerily. "We have _no idea _what to do next!" Lard Nar shot the cone a dirty look.

"Well, that should be obvious," Smikka Smikka Smoodoo said. "My people have spent much time discussing a possible rebellion, and we all agree that if we ever had a spaceship, we would attack the Massive!"

"Hey, that's a good idea," said the alien Lard Nar had called Spleenk. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Because we _did_ think of that, and we ended up having to self-destruct our own ship when we tried," Lard Nar said, gritting his teeth. "The Massive is off-limits. As long as it's got the Tallest on board, we won't be able to touch it."

"Oh... I see." Smikka Smikka Smoodoo bowed his head, defeated. Then what was left? Had he fled his planet for nothing? True, he hadn't expected much more than dying out in outer space, but...

"But Ellen, it doesn't have the Tallest on board," the metal cone said. "Remember?"

Lard Nar snapped, "Stop calling me Ell—" His eyes shot wide open. "Wait a minute... Shloonktapooxis, you're a genius!"

"You bet I am!"

Lard Nar leaped out of the chair and skittered up to a higher, larger chair. "Everyone, battle stations! Set a course for the Massive. Spleenk, you'd better get the coordinates right this time."

"I will, I will!"

"Smikka Smikka Smoodoo?"

"Yes?" He looked up hopefully. "Can I help?"

"What can you do?" Lard Nar asked.

"I used to be a world-renowned classical singer!" he said. "I can move packages, too."

"Great. Move your crate of pretzels to our food storage compartment. We'll need those supplies later," Lard Nar said.

"Yes, sir!" Smikka Smikka Smoodoo grabbed one edge of the box and started dragging it laboriously towards the only doorway he could see. Moving packages, he discovered, was much more difficult without conveyor belts.

As he dragged the box, he heard Lard Nar declare, "Onward to victory! To triumph! To the doom of the Massive!"

xxxxx


End file.
